


Apprentice Guerrin

by Sunruner



Series: Warden Guerrin [1]
Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition, Dragon Age: Origins, Dragon Age: Origins - Awakening
Genre: Adventure, But i'm half a million words deep in this series whoops sorry guys, Darkspawn, Deep Roads, Does this count as a fix-it fic?, GUESS WHO'S GONNA BE A WARDEN, Gen, Grey Wardens, I finally read Asunder and all the dates in the prologue are wrong, Morrigan's only in one chapter sorry, Orlesian Grey Wardens, Post-Dragon Age: Inquisition, Skyhold, Storm Coast, connor's pov
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-22
Updated: 2016-06-03
Packaged: 2018-06-10 01:42:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 21
Words: 122,280
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6932707
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sunruner/pseuds/Sunruner
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Connor Guerrin, ex-son of an Arl and former heir to Ferelden's House Guerrin, is an Apprentice. But after Blight, and Breach, and so much wasted time, what exactly is he apprenticing for? If it's not the Arling of Redcliffe, the broken Circle of Magi, the overwhelming reach of Skyhold, or the flagging College of Enchanters, then one earth-shattering night in the Frostback Mountains just might give him the answer.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Time for some Dragon Age fic! I’ve always had a soft spot in my heart for a certain sad child from Redcliffe, so here we go!
> 
> This story takes place one year after Inquisition (9:43) and one year BEFORE Tresspasser, so the Inquisition is still at the height of it's power and a lot of what's in Tresspasser is still just brewing below the surface.

His name was Connor Guerrin, Disgrace of Redcliffe.

Maybe the title was self-afflicted. In his early time at the Circle of Magi no one referred to him directly a such. The tower of Kinloch Hold was in too much shock to whisper about one new apprentice, no matter how blood-stained his hands had been upon arrival. The Circle had also been far too indebted to the Grey Wardens of Ferelden to question why the newly anointed Arl of Amaranthine would personally send word regarding Connor to the First Enchanter.

The tower stank. It reeked of an oily, brackish anger. Like sickness and metal, burnt hair waved under your nose in the middle of the night, bringing the nightmares. The same black, evil magic that had drenched Redcliffe in blood had announced itself here as well, saturated the stones, crawled through the masonry. He was not the only apprentice to suffer nightmares, but his were reinforced not _just_ by Blight, not _just_ by the loss of his family, but from what _he himself_ had done…

The Templars were too preoccupied with rebuilding and cleansing the tower to mind him for those first few months. One of his first real encounters with one of them had been when he’d put his spell book down on the floor, knelt by the bucket of cold, soapy water, and taken up one of the rags tossed aside from the knight who was already hard at work scrubbing the stones.

“I want the smell to go away.” He’d explained when the Templar had looked at him like he was truly mad. “It smells like death.” The Templar understood, or at least he acted like he did, and he let the young apprentice mage kneel and scrub like the servants he had once ignored at Redcliffe.

“It didn’t always.” The Templar told him. “Andraste guide us, it won’t anymore.” So he scrubbed.

Apprentices at a certain age were taught communally, in groups of three or four. They slept in barracks, one over the other in pairs, boys in one massive room, girls in the other. The beds were thin but firm, but the room was never completely quiet. Someone sniffling, or crying, or rolling over. Connor’s first bedmate always snored. Connor himself had nightmares.

He saw claws, and horns, and burning yellow eyes. The demon laughed at him, and he woke up screaming, blankets warm and wet.

From the barracks they went to a hot breakfast every morning, with a long and tedious prayer sung by one of the sisters who ministered to the mages. Breakfast was always hot, even in the first few years after the Blight when there might not be more than gruel and wrinkled old potatoes to eat for several days. Food was always hot. It was always smelled better than it tasted, and it tasted like nothing compared to life at Redcliffe: he didn’t deserve any less.

From breakfast and prayers to lessons. Jylan the elven boy from Gwaren with his cheeky laugh and sloppy glyphs. Amara the ginger-haired girl who liked to snap sparks off her fingertips and once, foolishly, aimed her jolts at a Templar. She was gone for a week after that and came back with far fewer smiles. Connor thought she deserved it.

Every week the enchanter changed, as did their alcove in the grand library. There were very few enchanters left after the Blight. A woman named Wynne had left, a man named Nial had died along with many, many others. Connor enjoyed First Enchanter Irving’s lessons most. He was calm, he was gentle, he let Connor read the letter sent to him by the Hero of Ferelden himself with Connor’s name painted with even strokes in black ink on marbled white paper.

From lessons to lunch, lunch to chores. Weeding the meager garden hurt arms, wringing the hot laundry hurt his back, scrubbing the floor and windows hurt his knees, washing the dishes hurt his hands. The first month he cried more from the labour than from his nightmares, and Jylan terrorized him with laughter and spitting because Connor’s soft hands were too weak to do normal chores.

From chores to dinner, and dinner into the twilight.

The calm hour, they called it. Free hours between the final meal and curfew. He could wander the library, or play in either of the tower’s two high-walled courtyards. One was a garden of large bushy plants, several thin trees, and benches placed so you were always looking at the walls. The other was a court of packed dirt with balls and hoops and always a half-dozen poorly drawn glyphs kicked into the sand. Apprentices Connor’s age and younger were always in the play yard, where some Templars would linger and stretch, maybe you’d even see one without her armour on and get her to demonstrate her thrust and block with a stick. Older apprentices and Enchanters would frequent the garden, often with books, or letters, or hidden together behind the large bushes.

A bell would ring, and all of the apprentices were expected to return to the barracks for the night. They could wash up, three boys to a tub of warm soapy water, or just go straight to bed the way Jylan usually did- but after a week or more of that you were likely to get dragged by an ear to the tub and washed by force. In Connor’s second year- it wasn’t Jylan’s fault, but one of the boys woke up with little white flakes in his hair. By the end of the week all of the boys and most of the girls did too. The Templars shaved everyone’s head and burnt their blankets. The older apprentices took it in stride, most of the younger ones thought it was funny, others cried and railed against it. Connor just felt cold.

His fourth year, his fifth year, his sixth year… By the seventh the Templars were already speaking far less to them, he thought it was just a part of getting older, of moving from those nearly black robes to the ever deeper blue of an older apprentice, but he noticed it with the children too. The Templars stopped smiling, Knight Commander Greagoir retired, First Enchanter Irving just looked _tired…_

The world _‘Kirkwall’_ hung in the air like death.

Connor was not First Enchanter Irving’s Apprentice, the honour went to Amara. But Connor did see the First Enchanter more often than he perhaps should have. He was, after all, the one responsible for the horrors Redcliffe had endured in addition to the Blight…

“A former apprentice of mine made a request of me.” The First Enchanter said to him one evening during the calm hour. He had been in the garden where Connor had retreated to escape the melancholy that late winter always carried with it. There were two Templars hovering not far away from where the First Enchanter, wizen and grave, had seated himself in the chill. The First Enchanter bade him sit a while next to him, and Connor accepted. In his withered hands was a well-creased page of marbled white paper. “I had my reasons, but I denied him. It was one of the few times in our long, enduring friendship, that I have done that.”

“You consider your apprentice to be your friend, First Enchanter?” Connor asked. Irving gave a husky laugh.

“Apprentices do not remain apprentices forever, young Guerrin.” He said. “Students become Masters and Masters become Teachers in their own right. There are many things that he has seen and experienced that I cannot begin to compare my own life to. It is the way of things. If we had not become friends, we would have become nothing.”

It was calm and it was quiet, Irving raised the gnarled white staff next to him on the bench and tapped the bottom end of it on the cold brazier in front of them.

“Light the fire, Guerrin, these old bones are cold.”

Connor gulped, wiped his sweaty hands on his knees.

“Yes, First Enchanter.” And he…

He did it.

This was not a surprise, he was more than capable of performing simple tasks with magic. It just a matter of… willingness. Great feats of magic attracted attention, and magic was based entirely off of the caster’s own will. The desires and determination of a young child to save his dying father had nearly obliterated an entire town full of innocent people. The desire to light a set of coals in the winter chill was not as dramatic, but it was still desire…

When he looked back at the First Enchanter, Irving was nodding tiredly, pawing at his long, thick beard. What could such wise eyes read from a simple spell? Maybe everything Connor had ever felt or feared was wrapped up in the smallest gesture and spark from his hand.

“You will be Harrowed soon.” Irving announced. “Perhaps in the spring. Perhaps next winter. But it will be soon. I did not make you my apprentice, Guerrin, but I was asked to consider you very closely for the position.” This announcement left him cold.

“But… But First Enchanter, I’m not- I’m the _reason_ why so many people-”

“That.” First Enchanter Irving moved his eyes and his hand, nothing else. He lifted a finger at Connor and his eyes swivelled independently of his face to look at him. “Not the circumstances of what happened, young Guerrin, but your reaction to it, is why you were overlooked.”

The confusion made his heart pound, palms weeping cold sweat into his lap.

“You were guided by an un-Harrowed blood mage, a failure of the Circle.” Irving continued. “Your circumstances were manipulated by the machinations of powerful men in dangerous times, and you were undercut by a complete lack of instruction. What happened at Redcliffe was not your fault, Connor, you were merely the catalyst for what followed.” He had heard this before, so many times in fact, even in his own mentor had given him this speech several times over the years. But it didn’t _matter_ , they were _wrong._

“I don’t believe that, Sir.”

“And that is why I denied my friend.” Irving answered, and finally his attention moved to the creased paper folded between his fingers. The page was so old and worn that it looked like soft vellum now, fibers dusting away from it. He unfolded it, the paper creased like his fingers and boasting deep, fragile ridges. Irving’s heavy fingertip pressed down on a line of smooth script, one of the many that had begun to fade and flake away after years of constant caress, and he read: “ _‘I say this all to you, in the genuine hope that you will be as kind and fatherly a teacher to him, as you were to me.’_ But it cannot be so.”

“Did… did the Hero of Ferelden say that?” Was that the apprentice? It was common knowledge in the tower that Irving had mentored the mage, turned Grey Warden, who had struck Tyrne Loghain’s head from his shoulders and then done the same to the Archdemon atop Fort Drakon. But Irving had mentored _many_ apprentices in his time, and-

“He did. And though he is a master of many things, Guerrin, he is not yet a teacher.”

It was all very much to take in. First Enchanter Irving ended their strange little talk by asking Connor to please _not_ relay to his Mentor Senior Enchanter Leorah that Irving had almost been so swayed to take Connor instead of her. He wasn’t sure why that would have offended Leorah anyways, but agreed just the same. Then he helped Irving rise from the bench and return inside the tower.

A week later, Senior Enchanter Irving passed gently in his sleep.

Lessons were suspended for a day, instead every apprentice, mage, enchanter, and Templar in the tower crowded into the Chantry hall for a service. The singing was beautiful, and for once Connor couldn’t smell the dread of foul magic poisoning the stones. The tower was warm.

Irving’s cremation was delayed. Connor wasn’t supposed to know this, but Senior Enchanter Leorah let it slip- she let many things slip unless they were directly related to magic. For three days his body lay in a stasis in the Chantry, and for three days Connor’s nightmares plagued him, the deathly fear that Irving’s corpse would stir and rise up if anyone so much as _thought_ of wishing he were still alive…

On the morning of the fourth day there was chatter in the Tower. There were soldiers in the tower, not many, maybe ten in total. They carried beautiful round shields made of silverite, the embossed image of a large, prowling bear glimmering in the middle. Their helmets and armour were well crafted, they carried themselves more cheerfully and easily than the Templars around them.

At lunch Connor stole away to the library and poured through the history section looking for a book of heraldry. He knew the crest, had seen it at a time before Redcliffe had been nothing but blood to him. He found the book and the herald: the great bear of Amaranthine.

The sweating started. It broke out from the crown of his head and moved between his shoulders, wetting the back of his knees, made his feet feel cold.

Amaranthine soldiers. Not many, not a royal party, but the Arling of Amaranthine belonged to the Grey Wardens now, and there was only _one_ Grey Warden who could possibly want to…

He hid in the library. When he feared Leorah would find him, he went to the Formari storehouse and found Jylan standing idle with a clip board and blank expression. He requested, in his calmest voice, to have a set of simple herbs given to him for a task assigned by Leorah.

Jylan denied him his request. Whatever they did to someone to make them Tranquil, whatever “severing your connection to the Fade” really meant, they hadn’t done a very good job with Jylan. He wasn’t compliant or meek, but now he was stubborn over protocol- something he’d _never_ been before the ritual. The hateful elf even went so far, when Leorah caught them in the middle of their argument, to forward Connor’s request to Leorah under the guise of confirming that she wanted him to remove those _precise_ items from the store room. Connor was seventeen at the time but she dragged him away by his ear just the same.

The vigil was cold and it was quiet. The only sound for hours, at the top of the tower, under the dark sky and its faint stars, was the crackle and roar of the flames. The acrid smoke was enough to blot out the stars, the flames too bright for gazing out at the lake. He had to stand there in his apprentice robe next to his mentor and watch the First Enchanter return to the arms of the Maker.

Not all of the Amaranthine soldiers were there. Two stood vigil at the entrance back into the tower, the inner ring of the pyre’s audience was made up of all the most important people: Knight Commander Lasser, the Senior Enchanters, their Apprentices, Irving’s apprentice Amara, and…

He was an Archmage. The rank had been conferred on him after the end of the Fifth Blight. He was dressed like no mage Connor had seen before, ornate metal boots gilded with silver up to his knees, robes cut from a colour he couldn’t make out between the black sky and red flames, but the front was peeled back to show his boots and a tunic of chain mail, all in silverite. There was a breastplate fixed under his robe, its emblem obscured by the gold hooks and buttons that sealed the jacket. Silverite pauldrons on his shoulders, gauntlets silently resting on the hilt of a sword sheathed at his belt, a heavy griffon buckle holding it at his waist. He held a winged Grey Warden helmet under his arm for hours, occasionally moving to hold it with both hands in front of him, head slightly bowed.

His hair was light, all his colours were fair: Connor had thought he was a ghost at first, skin sharply contrast with the blood that had stained the room where he’d woken up after the horrible dream. He was elven and it made his eyes, colourless in the fire, glow like lamps. The Hero of Ferelden was not handsome, there were white echoes of scars across his hollow cheeks, the tip of one ear ragged where it protruded out from the fall of his pale hair.

To the Hero’s right stood a man with long straight black hair. His clothing was all black and his armour just as ornate, done in silverite with a mighty griffon on his breastplate. His eyes followed the flames and his lips sometimes moved with silent prayers. To the Hero’s left was, strangely, a dwarf with fire red hair and an ornately braided beard. The dwarf fidgeted the most out of anyone atop the tower, spending much of the vigil leaning forward on a large shield that covered most of his body. The shield, like his ornate heavy armour, was silverite.

The three of them were distinct from the soldiers whose armour all adhered to a clear standard. The man and the dwarf who remained with the Hero of Ferelden from twilight until dawn were different. They, like him, were Grey Wardens.

Warden Commander Surana was gone the next day. His eyes met Connor’s only once the entire night, the rest of it he spent gazing into the flames that devoured his mentor. His friend. The Hero of Ferelden held the vigil all night and then marched out with his soldiers that morning, leaving a polite yet blunt refusal to be present for the task of selecting a new First Enchanter.

Three months after that, two into the tenure of their First Enchanter Raynor, it all went to hell.

Amara died in her Harrowing. The Maker was kind about some things.

Irving had said Connor would be Harrowed in the spring, but it felt like the entire Circle went through it instead. He wasn’t a full mage but he was old enough, close enough, that Leorah argued for him to have a vote to cast in the referendum. She needed him to vote against it, she said they needed _every_ vote that could help them keep the chaos at bay.

The Circle disintegrated overnight.

The Hero didn’t come riding back to his first home to save them, instead it was Connor, arm hooked under the screaming, shaken body of a young apprentice, clinging to the mane of a stolen horse, who fled the shadow and slaughter of Kinloch Hold.  

Leorah had been run through with a sword, a Templar blade, maybe she’d deserved it after using a spell to compel the boatman to take Connor and several young apprentices away from the island, defying the Templars for her first and last time. She died on the shore, her spell hung on just long enough for Connor to shove the ferryman into the water, grab the ores, and row for his and the children’s lives.

His entire body ached with anxiety, the full awareness that his phylactery would find him wherever he went. Templars fell upon them, not many, only three, at the mainland beach where travellers moved to and from the Tower. Connor escaped with one Apprentice, just one little girl, chased by the others’ screams, but the young elf died a week later from a sickness he didn’t have the herbs to cure. He arrived in Redcliffe alone. Redcliffe, of all places.

Months passed.

Nightmares, cold sweats, the guilt eating him alive from the inside. He could not be _here_ he could not be in _Redcliffe_.

So many times, he wanted to leave, he _tried_ to make himself go away. The people in the town didn’t recognize him, not unless they spent too long watching him watch the castle with what they called a haunted, soulless gaze. Once he was recognized, he was avoided. Disgrace of Redcliffe. Irving and Leorah and Jylan had told him things were not his fault for years, but Redcliffe knew better, the people whose loved ones he had made macabre toys knew better. They hated him and he deserved that hate.

Tevinter came. A hole torn in the sky, ancient Magisters unleashing hellish magic the world was never _meant_ to know. One day he saw Teagan. Uncle Teagan, Arl of Redcliffe, the man with funny faces, a soft beard, sparkling eyes. Connor was recognized but he resisted: he was not the Arl’s nephew any longer, he’d lost that status years ago.

He resisted so hard his magic came out with a rain of violet sparks from his hands. Teagan rejected him, not so boldly, but he retreated from the place in the tent city where Connor had found himself staying and he did not come hunting again. The next he heard, Arl Teagan had been run out of Redcliffe by the Magister, and Connor hated this world the Maker had given them.

Then came the Inquisition. It was over in a day, in hours: an uproar in the chantry, a meeting in the keep, and it was done. The Inquisition gave the mages sanctuary in exchange for their power, they took them to the _only_ sanctuary left in the world: Haven.

Connor did not believe Grand Enchanter Fiona when she said it would be a victorious day, he was shamed for his pessimism when the Breach in the sky, while perhaps not _mended_ , was closed.

And then Haven _burned…_

_Oh…_

_How he had never, ever, wanted to be so right…_

He survived. He survived by carrying Grand Enchanter Fiona through the tunnel leading out under Haven. His magic cured wounds, his fire melted snow into water that became tea, or thin soup to combat the constant cold. His lightning chased off predators, and his dreams, while not listened to directly, echoed those of the other mages and warned them for those first three icy days away from rifts or great dangers.

They found the Herald of Andraste and sang into the same cold black night that had swallowed Irving’s ashes, and two weeks later they arrived at Skyhold. Connor was assigned to the healer’s tents. He was only an apprentice, but he was capable, he was _willing_.

“Harrowing is _wrong_.” The other mage told him, a hallow sound in her voice as she used magic to purge toxins, to mend bone, to ease death. “You don’t need it, at least not how the Circles did it. You’re a mage like any other, you don’t need no damned Harrowing!”

Connor didn’t listen, he healed. Battles came, victories, defeats, stalemates. Chevaliers, and Antivans, Ferelden Ash warriors, Avvar hunters, and Dalish, and Dwarves, and… and Wardens.

He healed Wardens. He listened to them, after the Siege of Adamant Fortress, and one of them stayed in his care as she died. She was a dwarven woman, black hair, heavy lips, black tattoos, and the kindest eyes he’d ever seen…

“It was so beautiful… the song… so beautiful… but we were so, so wrong…”

She denied the deathroot, she asked instead for magical fire, pale blues and luscious reds, deep crimson brushed with gold. He made the fire dance and she died with a smile on her face. He lit her pyre and knew he should have done more.

More and more, the people he tended were the ones who died. He came to them and they smiled, and then-

_“They don’t give up, you don’t fail.”_

He didn’t… know who said it to him.

_“They are hurting, hurting so- so **badly**. You make it end, gently, and the last thing they know is that they love you._ ”

Someone said it to him, he didn’t know when it was, or what prompted it. He slept better after that though, when he slept at all.

His ninth year, his tenth year…

The College of Enchanters.

A hundred other things for them to argue about, which meant the matter of Apprenticeship was sidelined, almost indefinitely. Tranquility had been forbidden, he had no fear of being dragged away to share the same fate as Jylan, passive and accepting of the sword when it tore him apart in the tower courtyard. He was just the same as he had been since the day his mother kissed him goodbye: an apprentice.

The College was to be established in Val Royeaux in the same building as the Orlesian Circle. Many Orlesian mages were directly against the decision to go back to the same place where their part in the war had started. Connor was just angry it was in Orlais at all. Even Leorah’s bloodstains on the shore of Kinloch Hold would have suited him better.

He made the mistake of saying this within ear-shot of Grand Enchanter Fiona, who agreed with him.

“There is too much power concentrated in Val Royeaux.” And so they set about another six months of _arguing_. Debates that Connor Guerrin, no one’s apprentice, had no place in.

He bided his time as poorly as he could. What was he truly waiting for? He was an Apprentice with no Mentor. No knowledge of the Fraternities, no will to return to the Tower or move to the Spire and too far away to risk the journey to Cumberland. No family, no friends, just blood on his hands and too many hours of nothing after all the years of tight scheduling.

While the enchanters argued, Skyhold was the only place he felt reasonably safe loitering in. He had no means of leaving or anywhere worth going even if he _did_ try to get out of the keep. He’d be lucky if he didn’t just freeze to death in the mountains an hour outside the castle. He’d be lucky if they’d just go ahead and Harrow him, let him die like Amara in a secret ritual with no way out.

He had no purpose. They didn’t even send him soldiers to heal, just called him to those who were already dying…

“New orders! Hustle up, people!” He didn’t know why he even bothered, why the Maker had pulled him through crisis after crisis after crisis for no reason at all. “Oi! Mage! I’m talking to you too!”

The gauze he’d been rolling fell out of his hands. The brash voice pulled him around, then down, to see the Dwarven scout in green and gold gear standing with her hands on her stout hips. With that twisting yellow-gold hair, everyone knew Scout Harding, and now she was mad at Connor.

“What are you saying?” He fumbled blankly.

“I said I have orders, if you’d been listening!” He hadn’t been, and slunk closer to her and the mish-mash group of chevaliers and Inquisition soldiers hovering in a loose circle near the healer’s tents. Harding stopped targeting him directly and turned to the group, addressing all of them. “Darkspawn on the surface and on the move near Skyhold,” she explained, and a murmur went through the fighters around her. “Keep it down! It’s unusual and it’s dangerous, our biggest concern is protecting the trade route north of Skyhold that connects both sides of the Frostbacks to the gates of Orzammar. Commander Cullen wants this stamped out immediately and the Inquisitor will be waiting for our report when it’s done.”

That… had nothing to do with him.

“Mage, get back here!” Harding was… kind of annoying. He turned back around and tried not to look too annoyed. “I said Darkspawn, or weren’t you listening! Need someone who can huck a fireball or two and set wounds in a flash, that’s your _job_ isn’t it?”

“I’m an apprentice.”

“You’re a healer, you see anyone else around? Get geared up. The rest of you, we’re moving hard and fast, prep your mounts, see the quartermaster for your provisions, we ride at dawn.” And that was…

That was, honestly, how it all got _started_...

* * *

 

 


	2. The Inquisitor's Way

In the Circle of Magi a staff and ring were presented to every mage upon completion of their Harrowing. Apprentices had to borrow staves from Tranquil storerooms, signing them out and bringing them back in a timely manner. The conversation around staves for all of Connor’s life even after the Rebellion had gone much the same every time:

“ _Here, take this, you’ll need it_.” Someone who was not a Mage would say.

“ _I thought you said you were only an apprentice? We’re safe now, so you’d best give that back to the Quartermaster.”_ Someone who was a Mage would tell him a few days later.

You didn’t need a staff to heal someone, contact from hand to wound was usually much better and the intricate weaves of a probing spell required far more finesse than just waving a big stick could provide. But Harding told him he needed a staff, so off to get a staff he did.

Skyhold’s Quartermaster who didn’t even bat an eye before giving him not just the staff, but travel boots, a leather jerkin lined with fur to keep the Frostback cold off of him, a traveller’s belt hanging with pouches and satchels, and a proper rucksack with bedroll, blanket, rope, and dry provisions included. If there was one thing the Inquisition never lacked for, it was the willingness to see its people fully equipped for whatever their task was. The jerkin had the Inquisition’s silver eye etched into the front of it as well. Pairing all of that with his own cloak and gear, he was uncomfortably ready to be out in the wilderness.

Horseback riding was not a skill he’d developed in the Circle, but in the nearly three years since his midnight flight from Kinloch Hold he’d become more familiar with it. Horses were skittish creatures when forced around too many people, up cold mountain passes, or near fade rifts and darkspawn camps: he trusted their instincts far better than his own.

Harding had a pony that carried her much further and longer than he might have expected. She and two other scouts led the company with six former Chevaliers, ten Ferelden swordsmen, and three Mabari war hounds. The scouts consisted of Scout Harding, the stubborn dwarf, Scout Sabrae, a Dalish with facial markings that made him always look surprised, and Scout Wingheart, an Avvar behemoth who said little to anyone except Scout Harding. Connor was the only mage and healer, so rode perpetually at the back with the supply horse that lugged tent materials and extra food in case they were to give aid to caravans.

They rode hard from dawn until mid-day when they had to stop and rest the horses. All three scouts vanished for that hour, tracking, setting up a watch perimeter. The soldiers spoke amongst themselves, there was even a bit of camaraderie between Chevaliers and Fereldens: something that Connor’s childhood stories should have rendered impossible. But they were all Inquisition soldiers now, they’d watched the Magister rip apart mountains and corrupt an archdemon to his will. It went above the bloody history and none of them were even old enough to have been alive during the occupation the way Connor’s father had.

While the men talked, he, the apprentice, stayed with the horses and strayed only for a few minutes to gather from a small crop of wild Elfroot. By the time he returned with it they were ready to set out again.

Lunch was dry provisions and water, the white sun was cold over the mountains. But there was a stronger sense of urgency now than had been in the morning. Less chatter, fewer winds and dips in the narrow road.

Travel to Skyhold had always been possible. Over the years the Inquisition had built and fortified a proper road, but they’d started their project from the Imperial Highway, not the Keep. The closer you were to Skyhold the harder it was to move quickly. When the road widened and its firmly laid cobbles grew smoother, it felt like every horse upped their canter a bit. The soldiers didn’t jostle but they did slip past each other at times. They stopped riding rank and file, and there were hands on swords and staves.

He was amazed his gloves didn’t drip from the sweat on his palms. One hand held the reins of his own mount, the other the rope from the supply horse, leaving no way for him to grab his staff where it was slung across his saddle. The rod was made of bleached oak wood, white as bone, with an iron head and staff blade. The grip was wound with white nug skin, and honestly it seemed a much nicer tool than any he’d been given at the Circle for practice.

Not that it would help him much if they were ambushed by darkspawn, especially not if he couldn’t reach it with his hands full, but at least having it with him was nice.

They pitched a cold, miserable camp with hardly a fire and simple instructions not to set up the tents- they had to be on the move again at first light. Connor was thankful for the blankets in his borrowed rucksack and shivered between it and the cold cobbles. They were up again the next day with cold rations in their bellies, and it was a quiet, urgent ride for several hours into the next day.

The Avvar scout vanished far ahead of them, and then the Dalish was gone after that, followed by Scout Harding. He overheard the Chevalier right in front of him tell his companion that the scouts were forming a line of information: the one furthest ahead only had to double back to the next in line to bring news all the way to the soldiers. Connor wasn’t sure why the Chevalier had to explain it to another Orlesian knight, but then he realized that the man’s head just couldn’t turn around far enough, and the eyes barely visible through his silver mask were looking at _him_.

“Oh… thank you.” He mouthed, several seconds too late.

“You are not used to riding with soldiers, are you, mage?”

“I’m an Apprentice, ser knight, so no.”

“ _Chevaliers_ are not knights but I understand your sentiment. You should ready yourself, we are nearing the place marked on Harding’s map.”

The wind picked up and clouds blew across the dipping sun- an entire day doing nothing except getting bounced on the back of a horse had left him sore and tired. Dusk always came early in the mountains, the teeth of the Frostbacks cutting through the pale glare several hours too early. The jerkin kept his body warm, but the wind sliced through the sleeves of his blue apprentice robe and the shirtsleeves underneath it, the worn hems of the magical garment flapping and letting the wind scatter ice crystals from his thigh to his calf, only the boots stopping the pain.

Hunger and anxiety twisted his stomach. The soldiers were riding much faster, the horses trotting now, their breath forming thick clouds that rushed passed their bridled mouths. The pack horse lagged and so did Connor, his body aching from the hours in the saddle. The soldiers called out amongst themselves, made changes: the hoard of riding men became a formation.

The six chevaliers stood on their stirrups, calling out commands until they formed a V at the front with their tall polearms glinting in the last of the sunlight. The swordsmen fell into two equal lines behind them, a column with space in the middle, guarded on each flank by Inquisition shields. The two Fereldans in the back turned in their saddles and waved Connor forward, hawking at him to make sure he, the mage, rode in the middle.

The sunlight was fading quickly when they heard it: horse hooves beating the road coming back towards them, and then the high, alert call of a scout’s horn. Connor couldn’t see through the gloom and Chevaliers far enough to know which scout it was at first, but it didn’t matter. The entire company came to a precision stop in the road, and a moment later Scout Harding’s voice came up brilliant and clear from the front of the column.

“Inquisition!” She shouted, “Two caravans are under siege in the pass half a mile before us! Their wagons are circled, they are pilgrims, merchants, families! Their mercenaries are strong but they need _our_ support!”

The dwarf was too small to see clearly, but her voice cut through the twilight like a blade, one she drew and held overhead.

“You are soldiers, warriors of glory! For whom do you fight?”

“ _The Inquisition!”_ The sudden bellow from sixteen soldiers startled Connor so badly his horse skittered and wobbled under him.

“When chaos threatens, and your blade is called, to whom do you answer?”

“ _The Inquisition!”_

“When innocents cry out, their homes burned, their families in danger, who will protect them?”

“ _The Inquisition!_ ”

“ _Who are you!”_

_“THE INQUISITION!”_

The soldiers gave a bellow, swords and axes and halberds raised. The dying light caught off their steel and iron. The Fereldans beat their blades on their wooden shields, pounding like a war drum in sync with their hearts and voices. The Chevaliers slammed their halberd ends on the cobbles far beneath their horses’ hooves, echoing the noise of the Fereldans. The six of them reared their horses in unison, the three mabaris threw their heads back and howled. One company of men made more noise than entire army in the night.

The sound terrified him. He wanted to tell them to stop, that they were filling the entire pass with their noise and that the Darkspawn would know they were coming, that-

That was their plan.

That was why they did it.

He was going to be sick.

 The horses moved as a single unit, not even Connor’s nerves could slow his horse down after it had been bred for formation walking and war. The pack horse could have been his excuse to go slower, but it rallied at the worst moment and kept pace. First to a trot, then a canter, and as the road turned and the sky darkened, the sound of crying voices and ringing steel galvanized the entire force save the apprentice mage.

The approach became a gallop, voices whooping in the night, fire from a fast approaching source guiding them as their voices rose with the clatter and sparks of hooves on stone. A deep horn sounded from within their midst and Connor’s hand lost the pack horse’s rope and found his staff grip instead. He couldn’t get it loose from the horse’s body just kept rolling and jostling under him. He gripped the pommel for dear life instead and dropped his head to make himself smaller, just a shadow clinging to the war horse.

He was glad he hung on, because everything happened too quickly around him.

There was a noise, a great screaming explosion of anger and terror, and suddenly his flanking guards were gone. The Chevaliers in the head of the formation melted away until there were only two left, Connor’s horse following theirs as something crunched under this horse’s legs, flames blinded him on all sides, and he screamed when the Chevaliers took to the air and his horse followed them with a sky-bound leap.

He almost cracked his teeth when the horse landed on the other side of a tall barrier. The screams continued, women, men, distinctly human or at least not monsters. The Chevaliers he had followed through the dizzying night reared their horses and set them cantering around the provisional camp that formed from the thickening darkness. They barked orders, demanded calm, pointed at Connor with words he didn’t understand and didn’t stop until he’d scrambled out of his saddle, weak-kneed and ready to vomit when his feet hit the ground.

The two soldiers wheeled on their mounts and with a war horn blast and holler their horses leapt away through the fire to join the fight.

His heart wouldn’t calm down. He couldn’t hear anything until there was a burst of cold air in his lungs: he remembered to breathe.

Connor was standing in a tight circle of wagons and carriages. There were women and wives, men in farmer’s rough leathers and soldier’s tough jerkins. Swords, daggers, pitchforks, bows- and screaming.

Two wagons were blazing with flame, and the snarling, unreal noise of something truly monsterous was all around, lurking in the long shadows, the flickering darkness. The sky was starless and the frigid wind whipped the flames up into columns of howling terror.

Fighting to free his staff from the saddle, when it finally came loose he almost tripped over his own feet. He held the staff close across his chest, fighting to keep his lungs breathing, his eyes blindly searching for any sense of what he was meant to be doing here.

_‘You’re a healer, you’re a healer, you’re a-’_ No he wasn’t, he was an apprentice mage, unharrowed, unable to do more than just help people die.

His paralysis was broken by a shrill screech that pierced the night and caused one of the wagons nearby to shake and start to tip. The three men cowering behind it screamed and fled as the heavy wagon rolled, and up over the side of it came a creature wearing twisted metal armor, its pockmarked skin fully visible in the roaring firelight,  crooked black teeth and pus from open sores dripping from its face as it screeched again.

An arrow struck it dead in the centre, but the darkspawn hurled itself to the ground inside the weak fortification and swung a crooked blade like a farmer against wheat. The first human fell away screaming, the second had his sword up before his blow was parried and the darkspawn, shorter than its prey, grabbed him by the arm and threw him full to the side like a child with a doll.

Connor’s body froze, seized, and then he dropped his staff head forward, a scream of simple terror launching a bolt of white magic from the iron claw straight at the darkspawn. The blow struck the centre of its breastplate and the creature staggered, then looked at him, focused, and screamed before charging.

“No-” He was going to die, he was going to-

Both hands on his staff grip, he swung the bladed end out with a weak, terrified murmur. He wanted it to stop, he _willed_ it to stop. He felt the ice move down his arms, spiral through the bleached oak, and erupt with a blast of frigid wind from the darkspawn’s feet, catching it with several feet still between them.

The third man who had been hiding lunged forward with an old sword from behind the darkspawn, screamed to the Maker above, and plunged the blade through the frozen creature’s back. In the spinning firelight Connor watched blood blacken the ice in the creature’s front, and then it burst free. Not dead, just angry-

Sweat was in his eyes, sweat and tears, this was how he was going to die. Any moment now he would feel warmth spill down his thighs and that would be the end of him: Connor Guerrin once of Redcliffe, once of the Circle of Magi, he who pissed himself and died surrounded by Inquisition soldiers and peasants.

He dropped his staff’s position, thrust his hand forward, and with a desperate cry let his hopeless anger flare out of his finger tips as tongues of liquid violet lightning. He aimed for the eyes of the darkspawn but missed: they were drawn to the sword piercing its stubby body, and when they struck there was a great blast of heat before the cooked, smoking creature dropped dead on hard cobbles of the road.

“ _Mage!_ Mage over here!”

He didn’t know which of them was more shocked by it, himself or the Darkspawn.

“I said over here! _MAGE!”_

He snapped out of it, body humming with adrenaline and turned to the screaming voice. It was a woman bearing in mercenary arms, throwing her hand at the wagon the darkspawn had crawled over and the half-dozen figures charging towards them.

“ _Burn it! BURN IT!_ We have a chance if they hesitate!”

His head rejected it, more fire would not help them, but his hands didn’t listen and his heart throbbed with heat. He took a breath to cool himself and speak, but the staff circled his head once and when he brought it to a hard stop, staff head in front of him, out spewed thick, wet ropes of red fire.

Whatever the wagon had carried caught immediately, and the first darkspawn that leaped up to walk over the wagon fell right through the burning wood and died a screaming, painful death. The next ones hesitated and another traveller with a bow and arrow took one of them down with a shot through the eye. The last Connor saw of them was horses running them down and Inquisition shields raised high in the fight.

But there were more.

The war horn sounded and Connor only learned what it meant in the moments between darkspawn incursions into the wagon circle. The travellers and himself formed a ring in the centre, twenty feet between them and the wagon wall, and Connor could hear the hoofbeats that meant the Inquisition riders were charging again and again, running their horses ragged in an endless circle around the camp, trying to rout the darkspawn before they could leap or push their way through the wagons. When they made it through, the travellers fought with stones and arrows and the shaking arm of one mage apprentice. His spells faltered and his staff fell out of his hands more than once. He was dizzy from the fire and the smoke and the pervasive reek of death. Terror kept him on his feet, a resolve to live that felt foreign to him refused to let him fall on one of those jagged swords.

Still, there were more.

Horses screamed, men died. In desperation two of the Chevaliers leaped their horses back into the wagon circle, several men-at-arms staggered through the openings in the barricade, clutching wounds and holding comrades. Sixteen men had shrunken to ten, their horses numbered four, fewer arrows cut the air from the hidden scouts.

And there were _more…_

“They keep coming from the forest to the west of us!” One of the knights shouted, and to Connor’s ears he sounded hopeless. “A cavern maybe, an entrance to the Deep Roads!”

“Why!?”

“The fighting? The blood? Anything could egg them on-”

Connor’s vision swam from white to black. He’d never been so thirsty in his life, his hair wet with sweat and the cold wind burning his face.

“ _MAGE!_ Stay awake! On your feet!”

“He needs lyrium! _Lyrium!_ ” They had none. The few vials Connor had been given had been stowed in his saddle bags, and his horse was dead at the edge of the circle, too far away for them to venture.

A Hurlock came at them. It had to be a Hurlock. It was twice the size of the ones before it, it pushed the entire wagon out of its way, it killed three swordsmen and tore a Chevalier’s arm right off his body before it was brought down. Connor didn’t see the man’s face as he was dragged back, maimed and gushing blood, he just heard his voice rasp through the blood splattered mask: _“You don’t have the lyrium, you can’t save me- you don’t have the lyrium, the people, you can heal the people- Maker forgive…”_ and he died.

More, and more…

They couldn’t run without horses, they hadn’t brought enough soldiers to fight an entire hoard. The bodies piled up, darkspawn and human, and no one said the obvious that contact with Blight was almost assured now. If they survived the night, they wouldn’t last the week.

They were going to die. They were all going to die. And more than that, it would be a death no one here deserved. Maybe Connor deserved it, after Redcliffe, after a life spent doing nothing to repent for it, but no one else did. Not the men-at-arms, not the merchants, not the farmers, not the mercenaries, not even the Chevaliers whose infamous tales had been his bread and butter as a child. They were going to die.

And then they heard the horn.

And then they heard the _blast_.

Felt it, heard it, could do nothing as the ground rolled under their feet. Cobbles popped from the masonry of the road, cracks as the earth buckled and the mountains shook. It was a spire of brilliance in Connor’s mind, his very pores opening wide as magic flooded the valley from a point in the blackness only a few hundred yards away.

The dying fire of the burning wagons could barely show it, but the Maker willed their sight to reach the forest. Here where the road bent between the mountain and the sky, darkness pulled back from the flames and let them see. The forest shook and the trees snapped, soil and stone gurgling like water as they crashed down. One of their wagons was lifted and then covered, their entire group backing away in fright, but they were unharmed.

“A- A mage!” Connor didn’t recognize his own voice, but it was his and it was screaming itself raw with hysterics. “A mage! It- It’s a mage! The magic! The-” The glyphs.

White light erupted under their feet, blinding them all before Connor fell to his knees, dropped his staff and planted his hands on the shimmering magic in desperate relief. Something between water and lyrium flowed up through the cracked stones, a glyph of restoration and soothing light, it calmed the restless shakes in his arms, cleared his vision, and brought the screaming in his ears to a lower level. Several soldiers staggered, but not as dramatically, one even raised his sword in the loudest war cry he could manage.

Connor looked up and he saw the Mage’s staff, just the end of it. It glowed from an outcropping of rock beyond the edge of the landslide, dipping and spinning, twirling like a baton of hope. He couldn’t recognize the colour, but it was heat that wove itself through the sky- a massive web of magic too complicated for his dizzy eyes to follow.

The war horn blew again, a high, reedy trumpet of hope.

Somewhere, in the darkness of settled earth, someone laughed. Steel crashed. A war cry.

Not all of the darkspawn were dead then, and despite the danger of the magic overhead Connor moved like a man possessed in order to get closer.

_“Mage!_ ” Too late.

Another great darkspawn, a monster eight feet tall with a bald, scabbed over head and too many teeth, leaped from the edge of the firelight. It was screaming, it terrified him backwards on his hands and backside until its head was suddenly gone and its writhing body collapsed right at his feet.

“Stay back!” A Fereldan voice shouted, but all Connor saw was a shadow and the glint of metal, the great blade of a longsword catching the fire before footsteps carried the man away. “We’ll handle this!”

Whoever it was went no more than five steps away from Connor and the half-buried wagon, and then there came the sick crunch of a body run through with that same blade. The darkspawn struck the churned and muddy earth with a gurgle, only the ambient light of Connor’s staff showing the carnage.

Stupidity prevailed, and Connor scrambled up over the wagon and followed.

“What did I just say!?” The swordsman shouted, alarmed by the small handful of white fire Connor cast in his hand to help him see. The cry startled him so badly the light flared and then died, forcing him to cast it again.

The swordsman was square-faced with tangled, dirty black hair swept over his brow. He was angry and gaunt looking, but his _armor-_

“Move!” The scowl on his face snapped to sudden alarm and he swung the greatsword in his hands around, lunging at Connor but looking past him. All Connor heard was the crackle of mangled flesh before he turned and pointed his light at the creature.

His own fear sparked the harmless white fire into a gout of cold ice, taking the short monster in the face so it screamed before its entire body seized up one way, then jerked the other, and fell dead.

“ _Nicely_ done!” A voice wrapped in a thick, flowing accent commended him, but Connor and his light were both shaking too terribly to see the speaker. It was like the person stepped out from behind a black curtain, two long, blood-stained blades forming first, then the lithe form of an elven warrior. A pair of gentle lines were tattooed to his face next to his left eye, his blond hair filthy and braided back behind his head. He smiled, grinning in a way that pulled his face in all directions, a mad light in his eyes that reflected back Connor’s white fire. “But we are not finished yet! Come, there are more!”

“That one was mine!” The swordsman shouted.

“Then kill it, next time!” And with a laugh, the elf retreated and was gone.

Connor wanted to believe that the night was silent after that, but the simple fact was that it was very loud. The ground was _moving_ , not in the same great rush as before, but pockets of air caused the rock and mud to settle, and there was the distinct sound of something moving, writhing even, just below the surface.

“The land slide didn’t kill them-” He stammered,

“It takes a lot more than some dirt to kill darkspawn, mage.” The swordsman barked at him. “If you won’t go back then you’re going to stay close to me and do _exactly_ what I tell you, understood?”

Connor looked at him but missed his eyes. Instead he saw the griffon blazed across the chevron-shaped breastplate, and none of the other metal plates or details mattered.

“You’re a Grey Warden.” He should not have been so breathless.

“No _shit_ , Shartan!” The Warden barked again, he was in a very bad mood. “Now c’mon! You’d better know how to use that thing.”

Connor nodded, he didn’t know why he lied like that, but he nodded anyways. He wasn’t a battlemage, he’d never fought except out of dire desperation and tonight was his first encounter with _anything_ resembling a _‘battle’_. The staff wasn’t even his, but he lied and he followed the Grey Warden, tripping over his own boots and nearly getting stuck in the mud.

There was noise, just a little, and then a terrible lot.

“ _Piss-sucking nug-humper!_ ” The profanity was broken up in the air and then, with a large boulder between them and the frightened caravan, it all came loud and clear.

There was a glittering glyph of healing on the uneven ground, and dancing through it with heavy steps and a mighty war-hammer was a furious silver beast, winged helmet muffling half his words before the war hammer came up, circled his head twice, and beat a darkspawn so hard its armor shattered and its bloodied corpse knocked down the next assailing demon.

The warden charged without telling Connor what in Andraste’s name to do, bellowing a war-cry as the ground opened and a skeletal head ripped free. He took half its skull off and swung up into armpit of a blood-splattered Hurlock that ran into the circle of light spilled by the glyph.

Connor was paralyzed- he couldn’t enter the glyph, not with the angry warrior, short enough for a dwarf but mad enough to be an ogre, swinging his hammer in a circle so wide it eclipsed the mark.

“ _Make space, Oghren!_ ” A voice from somewhere in the shatter trees shouted.

A lick of wind slapped Connor’s cheek and hit something hard behind him, he turned and saw the arrow’s fletching first, then the throat, then the enraged creature the scabby, boil-infested skin belonged to.

He screamed, shrank away, and jabbed the bladed end of his staff up into the monster’s face. A bolt of violet light left it and reacted with the metal head of the arrow: it’s head exploded.

“ _Well done, boy!”_ The accented voice came back, it came with a sensation of being stepped around, the whistle of steel slicing air, and the double-impact of two blades sinking into the body of something sinister and evil that had silently approached him already. He was targeted and surrounded and while everyone else seemed like they could see perfectly through the night, he was blind and scared.

Antiva. That was the accent. Stupid detail, not important, but the elf stood there behind him, back to back with him, and didn’t run off roaring like the Warden had.

“You’re no warrior, but you’re going to remain _calm_.” The elf told him, words flowing like cool water into his overheating skull. “You’ve done well, so keep your wits about you. Here tonight there are five us, though the Commander is a bit busy up on the ridge. Four of us are Wardens, you and I are the exception there.” It was information, and it might have been a lot but- but it didn’t feel like it. It wasn’t overwhelming, it was grounding. “What is your name?”

“I-” He couldn’t remember how to speak, his eyes were watching the darkness, his ears ringing with the clang of metal and screams of darkspawn as the wardens fought and killed anything that moved. He didn’t know where the arrows kept coming from, but he prayed they kept coming. “Apprentice Guerrin, sir.”

“Well, Gwerran- no, _Guerrin?_ Nevermind. Keep calm, and step into the glyph: it will fade soon and we need you to keep it alive. Can you do that?” Supplement another mage’s spell with his own power?

“Yes, sir.” _Maybe?_

“Then do it- and if you have time, do something about my leg too, would you?” It sounded like a joke, it caught him off guard.

Looking down and turning himself like an idiot trying to see his own back, he looked and the light of the glyph showed him an ugly tear down the elf’s left calf: his boot had been shredded, the muscle torn.

There was no time to sit him down and handle the damage properly. Connor placed his hand on the elf’s shoulder, took a deep, steady breath, and felt a sensation of rich, fast-moving magic pass from his hand into the warrior’s body.

“ _Ahhh…_ ” The elf sighed, flesh knitting together, ugly, but enough for the battle. “ _Much_ better. Get to the glyph, I’ll cover your flank.”

The elf vanished. Connor looked and ran the few short steps to the glyph itself, feet scuffing the criss-crossing lines as he saw them beginning to wink out and fade, the spell fraying dangerously low. Whoever had cast it either had no power left to maintain it, or was too busy focusing on other magic to supply it.

As for the dwarf who had dominated the space, he had moved to the very edge of the glyph and spared only a single look back at Connor before heaving his Warhammer up slamming it into the ground. The blow made no sense, but then a hand reached up through the earth and he hammered the spot again, causing the limb to seize and drop limp.

He’d already known it was there?

“Where’s the Emissary!?” The first Warden shouted, and the dwarf answered him with profanity.

Connor looked down at the dying glyph, raised his staff up with both hands, and plunged the end of it down into the centre of the intricate pattern. Although the technical thing to do to replenish another mage’s spell, this turned out to be a dire mistake for Connor.

He lost all strength in his legs and the breath was sucked out of his lungs. He collapsed, hands grasping the staff from sheer desperation.

It was the opposite of the glyph from the barricade. Instead of replenishing his strength, this one sucked him dry. He was a single pitcher of water trying to fill a draining bath, and the black sky went brilliant white when he raised his head trying to breathe. He was drowning, the light flaring as the glyph stabilized and roared to life under him. He could feel its lines scoring his legs, burning his sleeves, radiating from the staff.

Something in him, some shard of his own magic, got trapped in the drain eeking life from the glyph he was meant to sustain. Most spells like this had a time limit, one that the caster could extend by keeping just a bit of their mind concentrated on holding it a little bit longer. Whoever had cast this circle of protection was trying to do just that: keep the glyph alive to support the Wardens battling around it.

That sliver of Connor’s magic that penetrated the link between caster and spell gave his blind eyes a vision that burned.

The web of magic that had drawn him away from the barricade in the first place coalesced. It formed a column of livid red light that seared the ridge above them, shredding armour and magical regalia, damaging the control a figure with blighted flesh and rotten bones was trying to hold onto. And Connor watched it happen like it was he himself standing there, with a silverite staff and a dawnstone head, the face of a dragon spewing holy fire at a black magic creation.

A master’s hands swung that staff, spun it like the heavens on an axis, and propelled a fist of raw power through the beast’s body, off the ridge.

The body of a Darkspawn Emissary landed on the edge of Connor’s glyph.

The lyrium-starved apprentice vomited and pitched over in a dead faint.


	3. Daylight

His mind touched consciousness several times, but didn’t take to it. Like he was coming up for air while diving like a Rivaini for pearls: Connor wasn’t drowning, he just wasn’t ready to break the surface.

 _“Go ahead to Skyhold, they need to know.”_ A voice in even breaths said.

_“Wouldn’t Orzammar be better, sir? It’s closer.”_

_“Orzammar will help Wardens, not surface pilgrims.”_

The next time he was roused was by the cold, by the fierce chill of the wind knocking something over with a loud clatter. The voices were heard as if through a thick door.

_“Another caravan has arrived, this time from Orlais.”_

_“Did they walk through the night? Keep an eye on them.”_

Back to oblivion. When he was jostled, a heavily accented Orlesian voice was arguing with one of the others, and calm, even Fereldan words repeated something several times. The Orlesian was either satisfied or quit the conversation. Connor slept again.

When Connor’s eyes finally opened, there was dull white light surrounding him. He could see nothing else, and the breath of cold wind over his raw cheeks made him shudder. A warm, wet, rough weight settled over his forehead, dripping water down his temples to his hair, but his eyes swam with the nothing light and he could not see.

“Easy now,” a Fereldan voice, familiar now after several brushes with the waking world. A touch over his hair, the clink of armour, and Connor felt the cloth pull away and himself being lifted gently to sit up. “Are you awake?” Could he speak?

“I-” His throat wrung out the word and he coughed. The arm holding him didn’t waver, the wind buffeted him again and he felt his body convulse from the terrible cold. “I can’t see…”

“Drink this.” A lip of metal touched his mouth, wide like a cup or a ladle. His hand reached for it numbly but couldn’t find it. He opened his mouth.

He gagged.

It was like sunlight poured into his body, rushing through his flesh and melding through his tongue without bothering to have him swallow. The sunlight warmed his shuddering skin and burned the fog from his eyes.

He was laying out under a cold, blue morning sky, several hours after daybreak. The black tops of trees and the stark edges of faded canvas over him, a make-shift shelter. The face over his own was pale and slender, clearly elven by the pronounced bridge of his nose and the long fan of his ears- one of which had the very tip missing. His pale blonde hair was filthy, hanging in thin, oily strands that turned a sickly yellow the closer to his dirty scalp they came, his eyes were a deep blue and uncanny in their pronounced size.

“There, that wasn’t so bad, was it?” The elf asked him, and Connor’s eyes were frozen on him. “Your body went into shock from losing so much mana so quickly. But you’re strong. You’ll be fine.”

“Was that Lyrium?” Connor croaked, his skin sparkling with itches and tingles, like his entire body had been pressed free of blood. Maybe a giant had sat on him all night.

“A little bit.” The elf answered, setting aside what he had used to administer the potion. Connor had been right, it was a ladle, resting next to a large mason jar boasting a pale, innocent blue concoction inside. It was too light to be a typical lyrium potion, so something either improperly made or modified.

Why in Andraste’s name he thought about potion consistency at a time like this was beyond him, and he did not resist at all when the elf let him lay back down. He had slept all this time on a simple bedroll with something hard and uncomfortable propping up his head. He watched the elf seal the jar with a tight lid and then a wrap of oiled cloth. He knocked the ladle on the ground- the cobbled surface of the Inquisitor’s Way, wiped it down, and stowed it in a worn rucksack.

Now Connor grew worried. The healer wore a blue jerkin woven with silver links in columns down the panels, edged in fine brown leather. Its collar was high enough to come up just under his long ears, providing protection from both the wind and attack. The garment was as filthy as its owner, his boots ribbed with what had to be silverite, britches covered by a skirt of chainmail. His only weapon was a dagger with a pure white handle detailed with gold in a sweeping feather design.

But there were other items around. Now that he was properly awake, Connor could see and hear more than enough to get him worked up.

He was definitely back on the Inquisitor’s Way, back in the circle of burnt out and damaged caravan wagons from what he hoped was last night. This shelter was new but it was ineffective, little more than one wall and a bit of roof formed of canvas between two wagon sides. There was a great silver war-hammer he remembered as if from a dream, and next to it a broadsword with wicked waves cut into the blade. Three winged helmets were dented and grimy from hard work, one with an oiling cloth tossed over it. Resting against the tent wall was a staff, a twisted golden body with two dragon’s heads facing each other, jaws locked around a glittering gemstone that looked smooth on the outside but facetted on the _inside_. The staff was resting, as if guarding, a simple kite shield of steel with a beaten and abused herald barely visible on its rough surface, and a remarkably simple sword in a leather sheath, its grip wrapped in black leather with an off-yellow cross-guard and pommel.

There were soldiers and merchants making their voices heard, the air calm as the heavy clunk of hammers signaled repairs, shouts and swearing accompanying mournful cries for the dead. At least people had survived the darkspawn attack, himself included. 

Uncomfortable with the situation, he pushed himself up onto his elbows. Connor gave a soft cry when his hands announced themselves as thick, clumsy things barely attached to his arms. He succeeded in getting the rest of the way up, but also had the elf’s full attention again- the _Grey Warden’s_ attention. It didn’t matter which weapons were his, although Connor had a gut-wrenching suspicion, because between their presence and his armour, not to mention the eerie dejavu of his face, this elf was a Warden. Perhaps the last one Connor even deserved to see.

“Lyrium burns.” The Warden said, reminding Connor of the numbness of his hands. He looked down at the linen wrapped thickly around his palms and fingers, and without saying anything the Warden came closer, knelt down again, and unwrapped one. The outer layer was white, or white enough, the inner one was damp with something pale blue: the same potion Connor had already sipped. The last thing over his skin was a layer of lightly crushed elfroot leaves. “Fairly common, but if you aren’t used to expending that much mana at a time then they do more damage. Treat with elfroot and soak in a mild solution of lyrium and water.”

The undersides of both hands were bleached white and swollen from the medicine, numb like feet kept in damp boots for three days. When he touched his fingertips to one palm and rubbed, thin threads of dead skin came away, revealing a slightly pinker layer underneath. The Warden took his hand back and re-wrapped the damaged skin.

“Keep the wraps on today and tonight, tomorrow you’ll have to let your hands dry out. Try not to pick at the skin, it will shed painlessly.” He’d seen this before, actually, but not on his own hands. Mages who had helped the Inquisitor seal the Breach had come back, some of them bearing burns on their skin from fighting when they weren’t used to it. They hadn’t been as bad as this though. He must have used nearly everything he had all at once but couldn’t remember how.

“Is it possible to heal with magic?” He asked, looking for a way to avoid extended silence and appear perhaps smarter than he really was.

“Not if you don’t want them to scar.” The Warden answered easily, and then turned his own hands palm up.

In the very centre of his palm the skin was a bright cardinal red, like he’d taken a berry and crushed it hard. He callously jabbed at his own skin with his fingers just to show it didn’t hurt. Radiating out from the red was a ring of raw pink that ran almost to the join of his fingers, and then increasingly dimmer scar tissue up his fingers. It looked like someone had chipped away layers of paint until only the tips of his fingers and edge of his wrist were free of the burns.

“You don’t always have two days to let something heal properly, not in the deep roads at least.” Or during a Blight, but Connor’s tongue twisted itself into an elaborate knot before he could make that comment. It was _him_ , but what if it wasn’t?

“Thank you.” He bleated lamely.

“It’s the least I could do after your help last night.” Connor heard that wrong, he knew he did. He didn’t know what else those exact words in that precise order could have meant, but he heard it wrong anyways. “I try not to overextend myself, but it was good to have help when I needed it. My men were too tired for that battle: thank you for helping them.”

Connor’s head spun. He hadn’t helped! The only thing he remembered was getting yelled at by a Grey Warden and then vomiting all over himself in fright.

“Commander!” There was no time for him to interrupt or correct the Warden in front of him. A deep voice bellowed the title and the elf in front of Connor stood and turned in one smooth motion, folding his arms as stomping footsteps announced the newcomer who appeared from within the circle of burnt caravans.

It was a dwarf in Grey Warden armour, the blue and silver of his outfit was nearly obscured by the plates of heavy silverite strapped to his body. The heavy pauldrons, wide gauntlets, and bold breastplate made the dwarf seem twice as stocky and wide as any other Connor had ever seen. If Connor really had doubted that this was the _right_ elven Grey Warden, then the new jolt to his memories made his stomach twist.

First Enchanter Irving’s funeral pyre, with a dwarf standing vigil with a flame red beard braided into an ornate wall of pride and status. The dwarf’s beard wasn’t woven into a blanket of patterned twists this time, in fact if it had been braided at all in the last week or two then Connor couldn’t tell, but it was the right colour, and worn by the right face.

“It’s no good, sir.” The dwarf grunted, turning away from the Commander to spit rudely in the direction of the camp. “Axels smashed, horses scared half way to the Anderfels, and several of the survivors already showing signs of Blight poisoning. Most’ll make it, but if better help don’t come soon then there won’t be much point.”

“Nathaniel and the Inquisitor’s Scout Harding should have made it back to Skyhold by now,” The Commander answered. “We’re a day’s hard ride from there, so our options are either to wait for their arrival or walk with the wounded on our backs. What of the second caravan?”

“Typical money-grubbing pisspots,” The dwarf swore. “Offered to take the goods off the merchants’ hands here and take the pilgrims along with ‘em, leaves us with the wounded and the bodies to deal with ourselves.”

The Commander let out a breath and reached a hand up, holding the long bridge of his nose for a moment. Connor could only watch him from behind or look at the dwarf, but when he did that the short Warden noticed and gave him a terrifying scowl. After a few long seconds of silence, the Commander made a decision.

“Send Zevran to make sure the merchants agree to a fair price, then send as many pilgrims as will go along with them. I’ll deal with the Blighted ones, just make sure I have plenty of vellum and ink.” The dwarf went from stubborn and scary to looking almost sorry.

“I’ll get the kid to bring you the supplies.”

“Thank you, Oghren.”

The dwarf gave a snappy salute, and then left.

The day started moving very quickly after that.

Connor’s clothes and robe had been soiled by blood and filth the night before, but there was no nearby water with which to wash anything. He made due by rubbing most of the vomit off the jerkin with a soiled rag, leaving the garment stained down the front, and wore it in shame anyways. His staff was reclaimed as well, and after he was dressed he was utterly void of purpose.

The Commander asked him if, as a mage, he was able to heal. Connor said yes.

He followed the Commander for the rest of the day, heart in his throat when the Warden pulled on his winged helmet, strapped the kite shield to his back, took the plain sword to his hip, and left the half-tent with that magnificent golden staff in his gloved hand. There was even a breastplate, a chevron of silverite, which he belted over his shoulders and paired with a silver pauldron. Connor had never considered a mage might wear any of those things into battle before, but the Commander wasn’t off fighting anything today.

The stubborn, angry-looking human warden Connor had half-met the night before presented the commander with a stack of appropriated vellum sheets and several pots of oil. Most of these supplies were handed to Connor to keep the Commander’s hands free, and as long as he was useful he didn’t complain or try to escape the duty.

The wounded had been laid out on one edge of the caravan circle, and this was where the Commander brought him first. The ink and paper were not necessary here, but magic was.

“Can you tell what’s wrong with her?” The Commander asked over the head of an Inquisition soldier whose shallow breaths were laboured.

“Broken ribs, sir.” And, with a touch of magic consented to by the half-conscious woman, “three of them.”

“Clean, or crushed?”

“Two clean, one crushed.”

“Set the clean ones physically, then mend them with magic.”

“Yes, sir.” As Connor set himself to that task, the Commander left and looked to the next person: a dwarven merchant with a great hole in his side. When he didn’t know what to do, exactly, about the woman’s third rib, he hovered uselessly at the edge of the dwarf’s cot.

The Commander’s armour caught and reflected the gentle glow of his hands as he worked, the techniques of a Spirit Healer easily recognizable as threads of mana twisted and parted between his fingers. He pressed a quilted glyph of magic to the wide wound, and the dwarf took a deep breath that ended with a relieved sigh.

“Mend the damaged muscle around the organ, then I want you to cover the wound properly with sterile bandages.” And the Commander pointed to a makeshift rack of drying linen that had not been there an hour earlier, but was being tended to by an Inquisition Chevalier and two members of one of the mercenary guilds. “When it’s done, come back to the first cot.”

The Commander healed the next person himself before they both returned to the woman with the smashed rib, shards of it moving ever closer to her lungs. The Commander asked him if Connor had any real interest in becoming a Spirit Healer, or if he’d already decided on his school of magical focus, and the truth finally came out.

“I... I’m still only an apprentice, sir.”

The Commander paused. It was a long silence, one that had him look at Connor so closely he rather wished he could vomit and pass out again. The cold sweat made his skin clammy, but at least he wasn’t dripping with it before the Warden replied to him.

“That isn’t what I asked. Which focus appeals the most to you?”

“Healing, sir. I think, I mean- it would be wrong for me to learn anything else.” With the amount of blood on his hands learning to burn a man from the inside out, or rain down fire and lightning were simply out of the question. What attack magic he did know had all been _required_ of him at the Circle.

The Commander regarded him very strangely, and then had him kneel next to him at the injured soldier’s side.

“You have to gather the fragments gently, like this.” And with his hands the Commander showed him, slowly, the way to weave magic. Just enough kinetic force, with a strand or two of entropic power, and… “It’s very delicate, would you like to do it yourself, or watch me first?” His heart leapt to his throat.

“I’d rather watch, sir.” His hands were too stupid from their burns for him to even _imagine_ doing that sort of magic himself.

The Warden nodded and performed the spell. When it was done, he gave Connor orders to cover the bruised skin with elfroot. He did as well as he could, and the soldier he was tending seemed relieved and almost pleased with him by the end.

The rest of the morning passed with this healing, interrupted at times by one of the Wardens coming forward to speak to their Commander. There was Oghren the dwarf who scowled, spat and swore. There was Zevran, the Antivan elf who was very frank in how he addressed everyone, but especially the Commander. And then- and this gave Connor a good jump, the last one was called _Hawke_.

“ _None_ of this is our responsibility.” Warden Hawke, who stomped his feet and gritted his teeth and objected to almost everything. “The Inquisition is coming, the cave to the Deep Roads is sealed by the mountain you brought down, and these people are not going to die for waiting a few more hours.”

“Then leave.” The Commander didn’t bark, or yell, or do anything to make the challenge to his orders into anything more than a discussion. If Connor hadn’t been standing so close at hand, he might have thought the human Warden was just angry at being cold. “Leave and go to Orzammar, or walk three days to Skyhold. But you have just spent a month in the Deep Roads, Hawke. If you’re in any shape to walk anywhere but Skyhold then you’re much stronger than I am, not to mention carrying far more rations and water than the rest of us.”

The Warden was given permission by his Commander to leave the camp, but it was obvious Hawke lost too much face even with no one but Connor and the Commander himself to witness the exchange. He was humbled and offered to help one of the remaining Chevaliers go and try to hunt for any game not scared two mountains over by the darkspawn and landslide.

It came out in bits and pieces throughout the day, and into the evening. The Commander and his men had been in the Deep Roads for several weeks, tracking an Emissary- a darkspawn who had obtained the gift of magic and the skill of rude human speech- for some specific reason. When the darkspawn had retreated, they’d come out through the cave mouth uncovered by the construction of the Inquisitor’s Way. The caravan had been at the wrong place at the wrong time, but the entrance itself had been open for long enough to have reports of it reach Skyhold.

“You brought down half a _mountain_ though, all by yourself.”

“One well-placed spell can do a lot of damage, Connor. The right tremor, the wrong fireball, it’s not the end result that defines a mage’s power, but the precision of the catalyst.”

Connor nearly dropped the jar of salve he’d been given to tend a pilgrim’s ruptured eye. He stared at the Commander and felt his heart drop. He hadn’t given his name once today, not to anyone, or heard anyone say it within ear-shot. He was just the apprentice. The only way the Commander could have _known_ was if…

And the Commander was looking long and sure at him, the narrow slat of his helmet not enough to hide those wide elven eyes.

“I’m glad that you survived the war, Connor.”

Connor dropped his eyes back to his work, too ashamed to bear the attention any longer.

With the light beginning to die over the teeth of the Frostbacks, the vellum and ink finally found their purpose. When they had tended to all of the wounded and Connor’s head was pounding from the amount of magic used, the Hero of Ferelden took several pages and one pot of ink from him, then told him to sit by the fire and rest.

He vanished around the outside of the caravan circle to the place where the injured, those who had also contracted the Blight from Darkspawn, lay dying.

There was no cure for Blight. They whispered that becoming a Grey Warden could save you, but that it wasn’t always worth the price. Everyone knew the Wardens killed anyone who wasn’t capable of completing their Joining Ritual, it was a lot like the Harrowing that way. Blight was passed when darkspawn blood was swallowed or splashed into an open wound. It was hideous and painful, and resulted in the victim losing their mind completely and turning into a ghoulish shadow of their former self.

The way to the Blight victims was blocked by the Antivan elf and Warden Oghren. When Warden Hawke returned from his hunting, he relieved the elf of the duty. Connor looked over his shoulder at them again, and again, and again as dusk overcame them. He did not see the Commander come back.

Of the twenty people who had ridden from Skyhold the day before, only Connor, Scout Sabrae, Scout Harding, six men-at-arms, and two Chevaliers had survived. Three of those men-at-arms had been saved from the wounded cots by the Hero of Ferelden just that afternoon.

An entire family of pilgrims had died, with the mother of another family resting with the Blighted. Four merchants, three humans and a dwarf, had survived, but each with partners or friends killed in the fighting. The entire terrorized camp, not counting the Grey Wardens, had numbered less than fifty at dawn that morning. With the other caravan come and gone, there were just under thirty people sitting at the final fire in the middle of the makeshift camp: the Inquisition soldiers would not leave until their comrades arrived tomorrow. The civilians would not move while their loved ones and friends were too injured or blighted to move.

The evening wore on and now and then, one of the Wardens would come to the fire, ask for someone by name, and lead them to the Blighted. They would be gone for a long time, nearly an hour in some cases, and when those people came back they returned clutching a bundle of vellum pages with their faces looking haunted. There was weeping as surely as the fire crackled and shed bloody light around the camp.

At midnight a new fire was lit outside the caravan ring and the bodies of the Blighted were burned by the Warden Commander. It was whispered, kindly, that he’d let each person say or write their goodbye before putting them mercifully to that white-hilted knife. They didn’t know their loved ones were put to rest by the Hero of Ferelden himself, they just knew the Grey Wardens had done everything in their power to ensure as many survivors as possible, and as little suffering for the doomed as they could.

The Inquisition arrived the next morning. Their horn roused the camp and Connor snapped awake by the rekindled fire to see the Warden Commander stand up after reappearing sometime after the victims’ pyre had burnt out.

The Inquisition brought blankets and food and medicine. They came with six healers from the tents where Connor spent most days, fifty soldiers, and a group of engineers to examine the landslide and tend the road if it was damaged. Connor was treated like what he was: an apprentice and a servant, running errands and fetching anything he was told to. The injured were bundled for the journey, the mourning corralled into wagons or on to horses, the soldiers commended by their fellows, and the Grey Wardens for once were allowed to stand idle and watch everything happen around them.

Lieutenant Blackwall was the one who led the rescue party, with Scout Harding leading her pony behind her. Blackwall was a Grey Warden and a trusted member of the Inquisitor’s inner circle, a proud, dower man with a thick black beard and grave voice. His armour glittered in the bright sun and his voice bellowed orders to keep people moving, everything in order.

Blackwall was the second person to address the Wardens directly and he did so by simply spotting and following the first person: a human man with long black hair and a hunter’s quick gait, armour patterned with silverite mail and a pauldron of a griffon on his shoulder. The man looked and moved like a scout, and reported directly to the Commander without a thought for the Inquisition he’d arrived with. Blackwall followed that man, and Connor was tugged in two directions when he saw Warden Oghren look straight at him, then make a subtle beckoning gesture. When Connor tried to ignore the hand wave, the dwarf put on that menacing look again that promised he’d put his hammer to the apprentice’s head if he didn’t listen.

“Grey Wardens,” Lieutenant Blackwall announced clearly, Harding trotting along beside him and Connor trying desperately hard not to look like he was running to meet them as well. But that was exactly what he did, because trying to pull up several feet away kept Warden Oghren growling, and the intimidating focus didn’t waver until he was actually standing there between the Inquisition and the Wardens. “I understand the Inquisition has you to thank for your service. According to our Scouts you arrived in the nick of time.”

The Warden Commander stepped forward in his full armour, and now was when Connor realized that, after a month in the deep roads, a night of killing darkspawn, another day of healing the injured, and a night spent burning the dead, the poor man must have been absolutely dead on his feet. His voice was clear when he spoke, but it was slow in coming.

“To hunt Darkspawn is every Warden’s duty,” He said, and if Connor hadn’t spent so much of the previous day with him, he might not have noticed how _tired_ he sounded now. “But to protect the people left in their wake is the purpose behind that calling. I am sorry we could not do more.”

“Your Lieutenant tells me your company was moving through the Deep Roads before arriving to help these people. The Inquisition readily offers you a warm welcome at Skyhold if you will accompany us.”

“My men and I accept the Inquisition’s generous offer.”

The formalities broke apart after that, and Connor had no direction to walk in so he chose the one that would keep Warden Oghren from knocking his knees out and approached the Wardens. What startled him was that the men scattered: the new arrival, Oghren and Hawke practically turned their backs and marched off. Connor meant to follow them and find out what Oghren wanted of him, but the dwarf glared again as if telling him no, to stay with the Commander. That the dwarf and the two humans would simply turn and walk away from their leader was so strange that Connor just accepted the bizzare hint and stayed where he was.

 This left him close enough to hear what Zevran said to the Warden Commander after Blackwall turned away, but in all fairness the elf didn’t do much to keep his voice down.

“It’s done. Now you need to take the time to rest, my friend.”

“When we reach Skyhold.” The Commander said, one hand touching the back of his helmet before he thought better of it. He hadn’t removed it since the morning before, only sliding it up in order to take a few mouthfuls of food throughout the day. Maybe it was supposed to hide his fatigue.

“No. _Now._ At least sit by the fire before they kick it out.”

“And how would that look, Zevran?”

“A lot better than me drumming on your helmet until you pass out, Soren.” The two elves shared a long, stubborn look with each other. Connor pretended to be an inconveniently placed lamp post. “I’m not one of your men, remember: your Warden voodoo doesn’t scare me. And if you insist on keeping Hawke around then there’s no conceivable _way_ you would send away someone as handsome as _me_.”

“You seem very confident of that.” The Commander answered dryly.

“My dear friend, you wound me. Now go sit down before I do the same to you.”

That was why the other Wardens had picked up and walked away so suddenly. After the formalities with the Inquisition someone needed to address the elf who didn’t seem to ever stop working, and that someone couldn’t be one of his Wardens. It didn’t explain why Connor kept getting signals to be here however, he was just-

“Guerrin, go scrape the last of that roasted rabbit from the pot before they dump it out for the journey.” Zevran’s heavy voice startled him to attention, and he saw the Commander frowning deeply from inside his helmet.

“Zevran-”

“What? The boy’s been helping you since we arrived and you have hardly taken a moment for yourself since then. Now eat.”

“At Skyhold.”

“Hang Skyhold, _eat_.”

Connor fled the argument. They weren’t angry at each other, the banter almost sounded friendly, but he fled anyways. He found the iron pot where the remains of several scrawny rabbits had found their way into a bubbling solution of rendered fat and potatoes, scraped what little was left into a square of clean linen from the make-shift bandages, and returned to find both elves gone.

He found them three stupefied minutes later on the far side of the encampment, away from most of the noise. The Commander was seated on the ground with his knees up, helmet off, and weapons laid gently on the cobbles next to him. His eyes were closed and his fingertips pressing the edges of his hairline like he was suffering from a headache. Zevran was drinking from a leather skin, and when Connor hurried up to them the darker elf lowered the sack and knocked it against the Commander’s shoulder until he accepted it for a drink.

“Excellent.” Zevran said. “Now, go and find us a pair of horses. I’m sure the Inquisition brought plenty of extras.”

Connor agreed and returned to the hustle of the scattering camp. Then, it hit him that he had absolutely _no_ idea how to just take two horses and walk away with them.

He tried just asking?

Er- he meant he tried asking if the Grey Wardens were to _receive_ mounts from the Inquisition for the journey to Skyhold.

The Inquisition Mage he asked said he didn’t know, then immediately noticed something wrong.

“Aren’t you the Apprentice who helps at the healer’s tents?” He asked, and Connor said yes. “Ah, well, we’re safe enough now in a large group like this. I’ll take that staff off your hands so you can help the wounded without worrying about it. Don’t fret, I’ll see it safely back to the Quartermaster when we arrive.”

“I- ah, yes. I suppose. Thank you.” And he… gave it back.

So not only did Connor not find a pair of horses for the Grey Warden who had saved Ferelden, Redcliffe, his family, his life, _and_ the caravan. He lost his staff as part of the bargain.

Connor Guerrin walked back to Skyhold, and he did it with a wide, sickening pit of shame festering inside of him.

Oh Maker, why put him through this?


	4. Skyhold

In the cold shame of the moment, Connor had convinced himself that avoiding the Grey Wardens was the right thing to do. Sadly for him, the long, cold, monotonous trudge back to Skyhold forced enough hours on him that before nightfall, he was already second and third guessing his hasty choice. He felt like a coward, an ingrate who hadn’t even come back to say ‘ _I don’t know how to convince them to give me horses.’_ In his own mind Connor rehearsed the way he should have gone back, empty-handed, and instead of stuck his tail between his legs and cowered, had let his temper catch for once. Spitting mad, he should have returned and said _‘It had nothing to do with horses, but he took my staff anyways! Can you believe the nerve of that guy? I killed darkspawn!’_

In his head the Commander agreed and even got mad on his behalf. The Antivan elf Zevran had made rude jokes at the Enchanter’s expense. The fantasy was cloyingly sweet and left him feeling guilty for forcing so many words into imaginary mouths. After he’d failed to come back the two of them had probably forgotten about him. In fact, even if he _had_ brought them horses, no doubt one of the other Wardens would have completed the task much faster, with better mounts, and Connor would have been left the fool with two animals he wasn’t meant to have.

That, or they had in fact waited for him and had risked being left behind by the Inquisition because of it. Meaning that now they were walking at the back of the train exhausted and overlooked.

Connor hung his head for the journey. During the next two cold, black, blustery nights in the Frostbacks he remembered to at last unwrap his burnt hands. The flesh was still pearly white and sore when he flexed his swollen fingers, but by daybreak and a rough shake to get him up and moving, the dead skin had dried, pulled away, and looked like ragged wisps of linen. When he rubbed his hands together the dead skin fell away, but he remembered the Commander’s warning not to pick at the strands and held off. It was far more effective to just pluck at the loose threads in his robe instead, which was about all he had to occupy himself with for the rest of the long walk.

A good hour after noon on the second day, the slow-moving convoy rounded a final turn in the Inquisitor’s Way. They found themselves looking across the mountain’s edge and down upon the full sunlit glory of Skyhold. The keep’s banners fluttered brilliantly even at a distance, her gates open, smoke streaming white and welcoming from her towers.

The people around him cheered: they were home, they’d survived, and their destination lay before them. Connor took a breath with them but kept quiet. Yes, he was relieved to be safe, but to him it somehow felt like he’d just wound up back at the beginning, no different from when he’d left six days ago.

The convoy lumbered through the gates and Connor escaped the crushing throng that formed. Lady Montilyet, the Inquisition’s Seneschal and Ambassador, welcomed the survivors, thanked the soldiers, and praised the Grey Wardens from the second tier of Skyhold’s courtyard. Connor heard most of what she said but wasn’t listening, there was only one thing he wanted and he found it as soon as he passed behind the medic’s tents and sought out a small, semi-permanent pavilion half-dug into the stone wall of the lower court. Brushing aside the flap he found half a dozen tightly packed cots, located the one in the corner that was his, and gratefully fell onto the thin, musty blankets.

He dropped into a deep, resting sleep. And when he woke up the next morning it was as if he had, somehow, never left…?

The lead Medic acknowledged him in the pre-dawn glow, commented on his absence, made an off-hand remark about having him back, and then put him straight to work. He lit the fire in the medic’s pavilion and drew water from the well into a great iron cauldron, and spent the morning boiling, drying, and rolling strips of gauze. An hour after dawn he was given leave to fetch a roll of bread and a mug of hot soup from the kitchen, and then came back to work separating herbs and preparing elfroot and his clean bandages for scout kits.

He healed a soldier who had fallen from his horse during a training exercise, and later brewed a strong tea for one of the servants who had severe pain in her abdomen. He hadn’t chosen to be an apothecary, it was simply the only thing left to him after Redcliffe. He swallowed hard and ignored the awkward looks cast on his ragged, but steady, hands as he sutured a clumsy squire’s arm with a silk thread, repeating an often-uttered scolding that not every minor wound needed magic to restore it.

At noon he was released for a period of three hours. He fed himself, bathed at last, and found clean clothes. The Quartermaster didn’t want the stained jerkin returned and let Connor keep it, something he readily accepted as, marred though it was, the garment was well-made and warm. 

With time to spare, he cautiously retreated into the Keep itself. Everything seemed calm and normal enough, and he almost fooled himself into thinking that yes, this was a perfectly average day. He moved quite easily into the library, found a scrap piece of vellum someone had discarded with ink-blots and poor spelling, and gently combed through the books for something to distract and calm after the last few days.

Sometimes, when life slowed down enough to let him breathe, he remembered his mentor. Connor and Enchanter Leorah had not seen eye-to-eye on many things. His nerves frustrated her, his hesitation enraged her. She would always insist he just ‘ _shake-off_ ’ or ‘ _get over_ ’ whatever was upsetting him, as if he wet the bed or bungled arcane magic on purpose.

But when his mentor had been accepting or defeated enough to just leave him alone with a task, they would get along.

One of the books in Skyhold’s library was the same one from Kinloch Hold. And if it wasn’t the _exact_ same copy then Connor would eat the cover of it, because it had the same watermarks, the same bent corner, and a few new bloodstains. It was a book of glyphs and symbology, one he’d found particularly appealing as a much younger apprentice, and that was the one he searched for today with his scrap piece of paper.

He wasn’t skilled enough to cast pretty much anything in the book. He knew the shapes, sketching several of them evenly as he sat quietly at the edge of one of the wooden tables. He knew the reason for which lines lay where and how they crossed and channelled what sort of energy. They were familiar to him, but he couldn’t cast them.

To cast a glyph you had to not only visualize the finished product, but then mentally draw it, filling in each line with the _right kind_ of magic. The energy had to flow smoothly and evenly, like ink from a brush, or it would go awry and burn half your mentor’s hair off and she’d send you to the Apprentice Barracks without dinner.

Graphite was safer. Charcoal was done burning and wouldn’t explode if you put the line a hair out of place.

He sketched until his fingertips and the edge of his hand were uncomfortably dark, the page filled in on both sides and about to start making a mess if he kept laying images over it. He rolled the vellum up and placed it in the pocket of his jerkin to dispose of later, replaced the book on the shelf, and then nearly ran into a Grey Warden.

It happened that smoothly, that casually, that he forgot to freak out about it.

It wasn’t Warden Oghren or Warden Hawke or the Commander, but it was still a Warden and Connor still jumped at the near-miss. It was the one who had ridden into the encampment with Lieutenant Blackwall and the Inquisition, but he looked a lot different now: being clean could do that.

He was a tall man with a grim face, long and frowning. His black hair was flat and from the temples it was pulled back and braided very neatly around his head. He wasn’t wearing armour and his chin was cleanly shaven save for one tear-drop patch at the cleft of his chin, he wore just a black tunic and dark britches leading into boots that were made for a great deal of travel in cold Ferelden weather. His only weapon was a lethal looking dagger stuck through his belt.

But he also had a book open in his hand that he’d pulled down from one of the shelves. When Connor wheezed a quiet “sorry” for bumping into him, the Warden grunted gently without looking up, taking half a step to the side to clear the path between shelves. The Maker had smiled on him and so Connor escaped unscathed.

He was shaken but thankful that he’d run into the only Warden from the Commander’s company that Connor had experienced exactly no contact with. He returned to the medic’s tents and was far less lucky.

“Ah, there you are!” Something about that sly grin put Connor on alert, nevermind the fact that the Antivan was lounging very comfortably by the medic’s fire. Like the Warden in the library, the elf was clean and dressed in clothing fashioned from black wool and leather, far less stiff than the silverite and steel pieces he’d been trapped in up in the mountains. Zevran did not stand, just kept reclining down at the edge of the fire, but then he swung one foot up on the bench next to him, boot missing and britches rolled up to his knee.

Connor approached and let the confusion show vividly on his face.

“Come now, don’t be like that!” The elf laughed “There was too much to do up on the road, no sense in causing a fuss at the time. But now that we are safe and comfortable at Skyhold, my young friend, and you owe me a moment of your time.”

“I do?” He questioned lamely, closing his eyes with immediate regret. The elf gave an exaggerated frown.

“If I had not stopped my dear friend from slipping on ice on the road to Haven ten years ago, we never would have found the ashes for your father.”

“That- that is not what I meant, sir elf…”

“Zevran.”

“What?”

“Zevran, my name.” He explained. “Former Crow and assassin extraordinaire. I give you permission to use my name as you would with any friend or enemy- but let us hope we remain the former, yes?” Assassin. The Antivan Elf who was supposedly _not_ a Grey Warden was an _assassin…_

“Erm… What… can I do to help you? Zevran?” Connor fumbled weakly, still confused by the bare leg resting on the bench. The assassin seemed to notice this and lifted himself off the ground, nimbly placing himself up on the bench and twisting so Connor could see the issue.

The flesh along the back of his calf had been healed in the battle at the caravan’s edge. But it had been healed quickly, sloppily, and did not look right. The limb must have functioned alright because Connor couldn’t recall seeing Zevran limp or stumble around weakly, but looking directly at it the flesh seemed obviously twisted. If someone had grabbed the muscle, wrenched it around, and then stuck it back in place it may have looked _slightly_ less mangled.

He swallowed very hard to keep the shame from bubbling up as more than just a hot flush.

“Now now,” Zevran tsked. “This is standard, remember? I am more than happy to still have my leg, and the quick fix on the battlefield protected me from the threat of Blight afterwards. But now that we are not on the battlefield, I would like you to properly heal that which was hastily patched.”

Connor’s mouth went dry.

“I don’t know how.” He croaked. Zevran tilted his head.

“You are a healer, no?” He asked.

“I’m an apprentice, sir.”

“Zevran.” Came the correction.

“I’m sorry- Zevran.”

The elf sat there for several moments, chewing the inside of his cheek. Then he leaned back on nothing and folded his arms, maybe to show off that he could hold that pose with no support.

“How old are you, thereabouts?”

“Twenty and two, s- Zevran.”

“I thought the Circles always Harrowed their mages when they came of age- in Ferelden at between the age of eighteen and twenty?” His stomach flipped.

“I was told I would be, sir, but the Rebellion changed things.” The elf thinned his lips and gave a wide, rather irritated look. “It’s a _habit_ , Zevran.” In regards to skipping his name again.

“So you’re stuck as an Apprentice for what, indefinitely?”

“Until the College of Enchanters has time to put together a new method of Harrowing and implement it, yes.”

“What’s wrong with the old one?”

“I don’t know, sir, they don’t tell us anything about it.”

“Stop calling me sir!”

“It’s _hard!_ ”

“And so is being an apprentice for five years too long!” Zevran howled, and he put a lot of feeling into it. “Maker’s _Breath_ , no wonder you look like every step is on eggshells. Can you fix my leg or not?”

“The Commander is a much better healer than I am, or you can wait for one of the Inquisition’s mages to see to you.”

“No.” The elf stated flatly. “You started this, you’ll finish it, end of discussion.”

“That’s not a good idea.”

“My leg, my idea, I’ll live with it.”

“My _fault_ if something goes wrong!” They hit a wall.

It was a very sudden wall. Maybe that was why the analogy fit so well. Connor was ready for the bickering to continue, but Zevran made no reply. He just stopped talking. He sat there, looking quite stupid with his trouser leg hiked up, and tilted his head the other way.

“Who is your mentor?” He finally asked, after a very long pause.

“Enchanter Leorah died when the war broke out.”

“My condolences. Who has replaced her?”

“No one officially. As you’ve seen the medics here give me tasks and keep me busy.”

“But none of them actually have you as their personal apprentice.” This was not a question, so Connor just fidgeted nervously. “I see then.”

The disappointment was palpable, and Zevran rolled his pant leg down while making low noises in his throat, like he was trying to speak but keeping his mouth closed on purpose. He stood up without a twinge, but paused with that hard look on Connor again for a few moments. Then he nodded his head with half a bow.

“Until next time, Apprentice Guerrin.” And the elf left.

Connor was inconsolable for the rest of the evening. The medics noticed it, the other mages noticed it, several patients made comments too. They sent him to the back tent and he laid down on his cot, hands over his eyes. Someone brought him bread and a bowl of cold beans later, but it was a labour to eat it all with the fever pitch in his stomach.

He should have at least _tried_ to heal the elf’s leg. It was his fault it had healed so badly in the first place- a field patch that _needed_ to be redressed later, and later was now. Instead of sketching glyphs he should have been practicing his magic, but without a mentor an apprentice alone with their hands glowing in a corner was easily subjected to questioning and suspicion.

Connor slept fitfully, woke up an hour early the next morning, and had a full batch of deathroot extract reduced and bottled before the lead Medic realized where he’d gotten away to.

“Snap out of it, will you?” She scolded. “You’re more depressing than usual.”

Something bitter and sharp flooded up into his mouth, but Connor swallowed and gave a meek “ _Yes ma’am_ ” instead.

His mood was even worse when he realized he spent most of the morning under _additional_ supervision. Not just the other medics, but also from a familiar human and dwarf who spent a good two hours pretending to talk and eat rations when really they kept staring at the Medic’s fire and Connor’s work. Warden Oghren’s flame red beard had been combed and parted properly, his armour shining like a polished ornament. Warden Hawke seemed bored with everything until he thought Connor wasn’t looking, then would give him the blackest look possible from the other side of the yard.

Finally, Connor couldn’t take it anymore. Rather than run away and hide which would just get on the Lead Medic’s nerves some more, he marched up to the Wardens, ready and willing to make an ass of himself if it meant getting rid of them.

“Good day, Wardens. Can I help either of you?” He said, a voice in the back of his head warning him that he didn’t know which one too address because neither one had given his rank back at the caravan.

Warden Oghren, now that Connor was closer, gave a dumb smile and laughed something dry. He didn’t get to really hear the dwarf because Warden Hawke was on his feet in a flash, squared up and directly in Connor’s space.

“ _Yes_.” He growled, “You absolutely can, _mage_.”

“ _Apprentice_.” Connor corrected, clutched hands shaking but insides too upset and twisted to let him run away. “And how may I- be of service?” He hadn’t wet himself or vomited yet, this was going better than he’d thought.

“Hehe, _Hawke_ …” Oghren laughed, sounding a little drunk. “We’re gonna start callin’ you _Chickadee,_ ‘cause that’s about how scary you get.”

Hawke went scarlet, veins popping out of his thick neck, and Connor was convinced the Warden was going to head-butt him and scatter his poor apprentice body in little pieces across the courtyard.

“ _Sir._ ” Hawke grunted, and Oghren tipped his head back with a full, shaking belly laugh.

“He wants ta’ _fight_ ya, Mage!” The dwarf announced.

“What?” And Connor may have been suffering from a stroke. Hawke confirmed that this was not the case by finding his voice again.

“That’s right!” He shouted. “I’ve had enough of all this tip-toeing around. If you’re so special then I want to see it first-hand!”

“First-hand?” Connor repeated, too stumped by the turn in the conversation to be afraid. “You want to- to personally beat an apprentice healer in to a grimy pulp?”

“Any apprentice that runs head first into a darkspawn hoard in the middle of the night is one I’d want t’ fight _too_.” Oghren- giggled? Connor took a small step back, but it was just so he could see around Warden Hawke’s tense shoulders.

“Is… is he drunk?”

“Possibly.” Hawke grunted.

“It’s not even noon.”

“Yes or no, then?” Hawke shouted again and this time Connor jumped. “Shall we duel or are you a coward?” This all felt like a very strange dream, maybe the deathroot had soaked through his skin and it was all a messy hallucination. He wasn’t even afraid, something about Hawke just failed to feel scary.

“I’m absolutely a coward.” He answered frankly. “But if it’s a duel you want then it’s a duel you’ll have.”

“Good. Follow me.” And Hawke stormed away.

“Erm-” And Connor had to say it, pointing up to the second level of Skyhold’s courtyard. “The fighting ring is the other way.”

Hawke came up short, turned on a dime, and it looked an awful lot like his march turned into a bit of a run. He did end up leading them, but Connor’s fear felt even further away than before.

Warden Oghren laughed and heaved himself up to follow.

The ring was a simple space of packed dirt with a chalk line forming a circle. Off to the side there were several practice dummies, some of which were in use as they approached. At least two archers were lining up shots and releasing in smooth, fluid motions with a Chevalier close by. A pair of Inquisition swordsmen occupied the circle for a few minutes before stepping out with a few laughs and rough teasing about the others’ form.

Connor should have considered taking a drink of whatever Oghren had indulged in, because as soon as his feet crossed the line the stupidity of this decision hit him. He wouldn’t die, but this was going to hurt, a _lot_.

He hadn’t reached his side of the circle before there was soft snap and hiss. He turned when he heard Hawke swear, and at the warden’s feet stuck in the dirt was a quivering arrow.

“The mage doesn’t even have a staff, Hawke. Take your armour off.”

“What!”

Oghren found a bench and plopped himself down with a gleeful laugh, and over from the training dummies strode the Warden Connor had seen in the library yesterday. His clothing remained as simple as before, but the lethal curve of the longbow in his hands and the visible wear on the finger brace he wore on his shooting hand announced his presence as a threat and authority.

“Take it off.” The warden repeated. “And consider a wooden sword too.”

“He’s not going to use wooden lightning, Nathaniel!”

“All the more reason to lose the hulking metal objects.”

Like an angry child denied something he wanted, Warden Hawke crossed back out of the circle and started pulling off the metal pieces protecting his body. It wasn’t full Warden regalia, with the pleated blue and silver jerkin, but it was the metal braces and breastplate, the heavy gauntlets. One of the Quartermaster’s assistants was not far off and noticed the exchange, hastening over with a set of leather practice gloves to replace the final metal-laden pieces. Hawke rejected the offer of a leather breastplate, claiming the jerkin he wore was good enough for this ‘ _stupid fight’_. Wasn’t he the one who’d made the challenge?

A quick whistle broke Connor’s train of thought, a tap on his shoulder surprising him when he turned and found Warden Nathaniel offering him…

“This is a broomstick?” He asked, taking the rod and noting the lack of broom head on the end.

“Give it back then,” The warden said, hand still open.

Connor wisely noticed that Hawke hefting a blunted but very metal broadsword from across the circle.

“No, I’m okay.” He amended in a weak voice, and then pretended he didn’t hear Warden Nathaniel chuckle dryly as he stepped away from the circle.

The two soldiers were paying attention now, as was the assistant. He couldn’t hear any more arrows hitting the dummies behind him, which meant the other archer was probably curious as well. Mages did duel sometimes, usually against each other, but he wasn’t _quite_ a mage…

“Ready!?” Hawke shouted, because he only had the one volume. He had the broadsword held with both hands, knees bent and weight low, squared up to fight with a focused look on his face.

Connor gave his broomstick handle a test swing, reminding himself that he _did_ have training with a staff, and his training had _necessitated_ basic combat. He just didn’t have to be happy with himself for agreeing to this.

“Yes?” He asked, and really wished the day around them wasn’t so quiet.

“ _Begin!_ ” Someone shouted.

Hawke charged. Connor’d forgotten to set himself in a stance.

So with a shriek, he twisted and ran several feet along the chalk line.

“Coward!” Hawke followed without even swinging, sword pulled up as he ran.

Connor turned, both hands on the rod, and pushed one end forward with a frightened rush of magic. Part of his mind went down the rough wooden length, channelling an intent to frighten and discourage before a brilliant yellow flame erupted and took the Warden right in the chest.

Hawke roared and kept coming, Connor’s clumsy feet making him jump and scurry backwards again, half an ounce of care getting him to turn and avoid leaving the ring. As he moved the rod came up and his fingers grappled to get it around, the opposite end letting off a shock of magic that fed from his immediate need to flee. The bolt took Hawke in the shoulder but he just kept coming. The sword moved up as both his arms rose, Connor letting the rod travel around his body, following through with it’s momentum when his hand shot forward:

The air rushed out of his lungs as a purple bolt of panic leaped from his wrist, spreading down his fingers and firing at all angles. Hawke’s swing collapsed when he was zapped under the arms and through one knee- at least Connor hoped that was what happened because he tripped over the end of his robe right after.

He saw sky, heard yelling, and rolled through the dirt in a panic before hearing the dull thunk of a sword blade landing down and biting the earth.

_“Get back here!”_

“ _No thank you!_ ”

Hands and knees he scrambled forward, took a handful of dirt and spun with it to his feet. The sand made a cloud that did very, very little.

Or maybe it did something.

Hard to tell with an angry Warden fist slamming into your face from above. His vision flashed white and he stumbled heavily to one side, losing the broomstick as he travelled.

There was shouting, disoriented voices cheering and laughing. Probably at him because this had been his worst idea to date-

Both his hands came up, it wasn’t going to work, but the ground buckled. He thrust his hands forward and felt a clod of earth spin through the air in the direction of the footsteps chasing after him. He heard a grunt and stumble, and his vision cleared enough for him to see Hawke stumbling with a hand to his chest, and the abandoned stick a few precious feet away.

Idiotically, he dove for it.

Amazingly, he grabbed it.

And then, typically, could not find his feet again.

“ _Blighter-!”_

So he twisted on the ground, rod pointed up, and shot a blast of cold fear into the incoming warden’s face. Hawke took the blow directly, the ice snapped closed like a trap, and Connor’s whole body was too petrified by what was happening to actually realize _what_ was happening.

Hawke dropped his sword, brought both hands to his face, and started beating on the ice.

Connor’s vision was white around the edges, a sign he remembered from that battle in the night. His arms were shaking from the lack of mana, his body trembling like the cold was in his veins, not Hawke’s face.

Connor thrust the rod forward one more time, and a boom of unseen magical force threw Hawke off his feet, out of the ring, and onto the ground where the ice shattered and released him with a gasp.

There was cheering.

It was that instant kind of cheering. The polite holler of support and agreement, applause for a clever trick on the side of the lane. The assistant quartermaster was clapping excitedly and the few gathered soldiers were hooting in excitement from the quick but explosive clash. Their noise died down quickly, but Warden Oghren’s belly-laugh did not. Zevran had appeared from thin air and was crouched next to Hawke, who was already sitting up with a cough or two, visibly swearing.

Connor saw all of this, then saw Warden Nathaniel standing, arms folded, smiling up at the sky.

This seemed like a fair plan, and Connor let himself drop flat on his back as well. Instead of just sky however he also saw one of Skyhold’s ramparts. And atop that rampart…

He didn’t… know how he felt about that.

* * *

 

“Alright. Explain the point of that to me.”

“It seemed pretty straight forward.”

“Do you expect me to believe that the Champion of Kirkwall’s younger brother, excitable as he can be, is so unrestrained even under _your_ command that he picks fights with apprentice mages for kicks?”

“Hawke _can_ be a handful. _”_

“Commander.”

Commander of the Grey Soren Surana glanced sideways at the human standing next to him. Commander Cullen Rutherford was someone he’d known to expect when deciding to make the journey to Skyhold rather than turn around and head to Orzammar, but he’d found the sudden reunion far more agreeable than he’d expected. For starters, it was kind of fun having a conversation with someone when you both had the same title.

“He doesn’t have a mentor.” Surana reminded him, leaning on Skyhold’s ramparts with both elbows planted on the stone. Looking back down at the training yard below them, someone had finally offered Connor Guerrin a hand to get up. Hawke looked embarrassed but fine for all the griping he would do about this later. Surana hadn’t asked him to lose, hadn’t said anything to him beyond a few well-phrased questions about what the younger warrior thought of the mage who’d helped them up in the mountains. The fight had been Carver Hawke’s own idea, it had just happened to be one anyone else who knew him had seen coming from a mile away.

“His education is the jurisdiction of the College of Enchanters.” Commander Rutherford dutifully explained.

“Which doesn’t even have a charter yet,” Commander Surana played nicely with the subject. “Nevermind a ranking system, a physical location, a method or the means to Harrow new apprentices.” Straightening up, he looked at Cullen properly.

“Did you know they’ve abandoned the old ritual for a Harrowing?” He asked. “What do you think of that?”

“I think it’s none of my damned business what I think of the mages’ methods.” Cullen answered bluntly, folding his arms over the shining edge of his breastplate. He wore the Inquisition armour far better than the Templar suit from years before. “I just watched, remember? Ever vigilant for something I didn’t understand the scope of. What does the Hero of Ferelden think of it?”

“For Mages who want to be scholars and sit in libraries all their lives, or serve as merchants and want to do business with the formari, I understand the outcry.” He admitted, and then looked back down over the expanse of the courtyard. “But for the ones who intend to lead a more… active lifestyle. I’m in the minority, but I agree with it.”

“Then let me be very clear about something.” Cullen said, lowering his voice as if the harsh wind over the battlements might carry his words too far. “If you intend to do what I and the rest of your men _think_ you’re going to, then you need to come down hard.”

“And why is that?” Not that Surana didn’t have an idea himself, but it was always good to ask.

“Because he’s the son of an Arl.” Cullen hissed. “Disinherited, yes, but this is a changing world. The Revered Mother struggled not to release King Alistair to the Wardens thirteen years ago, and I’m of a mind to say Grand Enchanter Fiona will be even _less_ inclined to help you.”

“Grand Enchanter of what, exactly?” He challenged. Rather than engage on the topic however, Rutherford pulled back and raised a hand, pointing at him with an approving look.

“There, like that. Come at her with a bit more heat and you stand a chance, if you even get that far to begin with.”

“Thank you for the vote of confidence, Commander.”

“Oh, that’s not it at _all_ , Commander.” Now there was just something about that tone of voice that made Surana stand up straight, arms folded as he faced his former Templar watchman.

“Explain.”

Cullen put on a lopsided smile, though with that scar down his face it was probably all he could manage. But no, there was something decidedly off-centre about it, and the casual throw back of his shoulders as the other officer swung a foot back and walked away made it clear.

“Come to my office during the noon hour tomorrow, it will all become clear then.”

It clicked.

“Don’t you _dare_.” The mage dropped his arms.

The human laughed and turned away, arms swinging with the gait of a well-earned ego. His laugh caught on the wind and smacked of a ready challenge.

“Rutherford! _”_

They should have gone to Orzammar.


	5. Recruitment Offers

Connor was too embarrassed for having taken part in the duel to do much else for the rest of that day. He was just shuffled along in increasingly uncomfortable ways until he found himself sitting in Skyhold’s tavern with a pint of cool ale in his hands and a crowd of boisterous wardens frightening him further into his own shell.

“A drink!” Warden Oghren shouted, raising his drink high, “To the so-called Apprentice who charges headfirst into battle with Darkspawn, and then follows it up by handing a Grey Warden his own ass!”

The Wardens around him cheered, but Connor was too shaken to lift up his arm. Instead he stammered, mouth dry, trying to get Warden Hawke’s attention.

“I-” He fumbled. Both he and Hawke were filthy from their fight, covered in a thin layer of the training ground dirt and sand. The warden had reclaimed but not put his armour back on, most of the pieces thrown under his seat at the tavern bar. He didn’t seem to hear when Connor called to him, but the apprentice knew he had to try. “You aren’t hurt, are you?”

“Hawke’s fine.” Zevran swept in between them.

“I’m sorry,” Connor croaked again, something he’d already said a few times since realizing how the duel had ended. “I shouldn’t have been so…” Behind Zevran, Hawke had his head tilted back and clearly wasn’t listening to what Connor kept trying to say.

“You were challenged,” Warden Nathaniel, the severe man with the longbow on Connor’s right cut in. “You accepted the challenge, fought well, and won. What else were you supposed to do?”

They didn’t understand. Connor was an apprentice medic who didn’t have to leave Skyhold in a few days to fight Darkspawn the way Hawke did. He didn’t relish the thought of being beaten with a blunted sword, but it was his fault for accepting the duel in the first place.

“Running away isn’t exactly the definition of fighting well.” He corrected shyly, careful not to anger the man who’d put an arrow at Hawke’s feet from such a shallow angle. “I’m sorry for the trouble I caused when-”

Hawke slammed his heavy mug down on the bar, silencing Connor, and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

“A duel and a real fight aren’t the same thing!” He grunted. “I’m not that sodding fragile, Mage!”

“No, but I still could have-”

“Get this man another drink!” Hawke shouted, banging his palm on the bar and leaving a few coppers. Connor’s gut twisted.

“Very kind,” He murmured as the dwarf serving them made the coins vanish. “But I’m fine with this one, thank you.”

“You kept the streak alive, Guerrin.” Nathaniel crow’d behind him. Oghren seemed too busy downing his ale to add to the conversation. “Drink!”

“What streak?” Connor a-

“ _Drink!_ ” They all three shouted.

Connor put his mouth to it. He was better off with cider than ale, but had sometimes tasted wine back before the end of the Circles. He lacked both the reason and the company to drink at Skyhold.

He didn’t like this reason, but the company was alright. His pallet was no doubt very poor for lack of experience. The ale here was heavy and dark, with a nutty taste that reminded him very distantly of roasted shells and a far-gone kitchen. Before his mind could conjure up a childhood memory, Warden Nathaniel reached around and tipped the back of Connor’s tankard up, spilling several extra mouthfuls down his throat and some of it on his messy shirt too. He came down coughing as Zevran clapped him on the back and Hawke pulled away the empty mug for a fresh one.

“What streak?” Connor questioned hoarsely, embarrassed by the mess but warmed by the alcohol and laughter.

“How many mages Hawke has picked a fight with and lost,” Zevran answered charmingly. “Pitifully, I might add.”

“I’m sorry.” Connor bleated, it hadn’t occurred to him before that-

“Shut it.” Hawke didn’t seem to care.

“The first one _was…?_ ” Nathaniel seemed a lot friendlier with a drink in his hand, Oghren had vanished from the fourth spot at the bar.

“My sister, obviously.” Hawke’s demeanor changed just enough with the answer that Connor’s anxious concerns subsided somewhat. “Just so we’re clear however, she took me bare-handed and we were both blind drunk outside Kirkwall’s Hanged Man.”

To prevent any trouble between them, Connor hid a surprised little smile in the mouth of his new drink, taking a mouthful after already learning it was much better than sipping.

“The Champion is a _spectacular_ woman,” Zevran’s voice hummed both with awe and approval.

“Next was the Commander.” Nathaniel egged.

“What-?”

“I was getting there!” Hawke roared defiantly.

“You-” Connor was stunned watching Hawke drain his second drink. “You’re not serious, are you? The Warden Commander? The honest-to-Andraste-” Hawke’s pint thunked down.

“If I’d had any sodding clue who I was dealing with then I may have reconsidered!” He announced, looking down with his hand open and a finger jabbing his palm with reasons. “I knew he was a Warden, an officer, a mage, and full of himself!”

“Which most would expect,” Zevran purred, “from the Master of Vigil’s Keep.” Hawke rounded on him with a finger pointed straight. Somewhere nearby, Oghren’s belly laugh started going quietly.

“I’d been at the Vigil for three damn months with Stroud and _never_ seen him!”

“That’s because-”

“No, _no_.” Nathaniel interrupted, reaching past Connor and giving Zevran’s arm a rough nudge. When the elf moved, Nathaniel pointed at Hawke and put a rough hand on Connor’s back to keep him in place. “Finish the story. He deserves to know, and after the Commander himself, Hawke tells it the best.”

Connor said nothing, but he knew he really did want to hear the rest of this tale before moving on to another, potentially less fascinating one. He drank again and felt Zevran retreat around behind him, all of them waiting as Hawke twisted on his seat and made himself comfortable for the telling. His square face was focused, hands up in front of him like he was conjuring the memory.

“So I made an ass of myself.” He explained, momentous in his severity.

Connor laughed. Then he stuck his mouth back in his cup and heard Zevran peal into a high wheeze.

“Shut up!” Hawke shouted, “I made an ass of myself! Threw some recruits around the ring, got cocky, boasted a little.”

“A _little_.” Nathaniel needled.

“A _lot_. So I challenged him, in front of the entire blighted keep, and-” There was a break in the mood when Hawke’s voice cracked and he brought one hand up over his eyes, laughing. He kept his free hand up, holding back any comments with the promise he would continue.

“And-” He pulled his hand back, eyes rolled up to the corner to show he was pulling the precise image from memory. “And he looked at me like I was a _nug_ that had just started spouting in fluent Orlesian.”

The wardens burst out laughing, and Connor wasn’t quite so shy about joining them this time.

“And he stepped into the ring! He actually did, and then the next thing I knew I was in the air!”

“No! No! Don’t skip parts!” Zevran shouted, “You’re skipping Sigrun’s favourite part!”

“Right, the glyph-” Hawke slapped his leg and told it again, but not without a startling moment where he looked and gestured at Connor. “That mage trick, the one where the ground glows and it’s like the Maker himself has you by your stones?”

He had _never_ heard it described that way- but yes? It did feel a lot like that?

“ _He did that to me!_ ” Hawke shouted, “Held me there for a solid twenty seconds! I couldn’t even flap my damn jaw at him, and _then_ he sent me flying.”

“Perfect arc,” Nathaniel reminisced, gesturing his hand in a smooth dome. “Absolutely beautiful, poetic even.”

“Right into a horse trough.” Hawke finished, wiping a few tears from his eyes. “I’d never been so angry at someone before, Maker help me.”

“And you joined him after that?” Connor asked before he could help himself.

“A few days later, yeah.” And then the Warden settled for a moment, looking almost sad.

“The whole thing, Hawke.” Nathaniel encouraged him in the same voice apprentices often did when making their friends drink strange potions. “Don’t deny me this moment.”

“A few days later,” Hawke repeated, “After I woke up, after I had my heart jolted to a stop, after I told the Commander’s wife to quit laughing at me, while I was still in the trough.”

“And that was the _third_ mage he ever duelled.” Zevran finished. “Although I don’t know if that really counts, what with you being in a horse trough and all.”

“I don’t think so,” Hawke answered in the most thoughtful tone Connor had ever heard from him. “But she scares me too much to demand a rematch.”

“Morrigan has that effect on people,” Zevran conceded in a surprisingly gentle way. When Connor, startled yet again, asked if they meant Morrigan as in _Lady_ Morrigan, former Arcane Advisor to both Empress Celene and the Inquisition. Zevran nodded and raised the last of his drink.

“To her health and happy marriage-ish-thing,” He said, his tone too mixed with that sly kind of humour for Connor to tell if anything was hidden in the words. The others toasted as well, Connor’s hand very late to join them until he realized how rude it would be not to do so.

“And, finally,” Nathaniel announced, “To Hawke’s fourth consecutive loss to a mage in friendly combat! Here-here!”

His toast was echoed by everyone, except Hawke who turned away with a bitter pout.

Connor did not do much talking as he stayed with the Wardens, nor did he realize how many hours he spent in the tavern. It was _very_ dark by the time he even considered getting back to work, and then there were the additional complications of his filthy clothing and pronounced stumble. He felt lighter than air, which sadly did not help him navigate the steps down from the courtyard level with the tavern down to the medic’s tents. He made it about half-way down on his own before deciding that this was good. This step right here was good, and he would sleep here. Right here on this nice, friendly step.

“Hawke, leave him be.” A voice chattered in the dark.

“No no, I can help!”

“Hawke, I mean it.”

“He’s piss drunk, he won’t remember it.”

“ _Hawke._ ”

Several hours later, Connor woke up in a horse trough.

One desperately needed bath and a mug of hot elfroot tea later, he vowed to never drink with sodding Grey Wardens ever _again_.

“Guerrin!” Ow…

“Oh… please don’t do that…” He hummed the words lowly to himself, which was just about the only level of sound he could tolerate today. He had hidden himself in the Medic’s tents with a backlog of torn satchels and dull work knives, diligently stitching and suturing his way through the worst of his headache. By the time lunch rolled around he was more concerned with just remaining out of sight than tending to his own pain.

How much had he drunk? What stupid things had he said? His memory of everything felt clear enough up until the incident with the friendly step, but he couldn’t be sure. What business had Connor had going along with the Wardens to drink? What difference did it make if Warden Oghren had been deliriously drunk _before_ reaching the tavern or that Zevran wasn’t _actually_ a Warden at all? He must have looked so stupid. He hated it. He was such a fool and would be glad when the Wardens were long gone from Skyhold.

“If you’re done with your hangover, I’ve a task for you.” The Lead Medic announced _very_ loudly into the tent.

“I… what is it?”

“Small delivery, won’t take two shakes.” Well then get someone _else_ to do it, he wanted to say. Not only was he busy with the repairs in front of him and a newly threaded needle, but he was an apprentice _mage_ who had more talents than running and fetching like an errand boy. It was the hangover making him so sour, but Connor couldn’t talk himself out of it. He wasn’t the runner, damn it!

“Yes, ma’am.” But he put down his work and stepped out under the cloudy grey sky over the keep. At least the Maker had lessened the sun’s light for a day. The Lead Medic handed him a sturdy wooden case wrapped and bound with rough leather. The insides clinked and that meant it was probably a delivery of medicine and potions destined for the camp down in the valley… A good two hour round-trip.

“For Commander Rutherford.” His supervisor announced, and Connor could only squint at her in numbed concern.

“Really?”

The Lead Medic swung her arm up and pointed to the Commander’s tower that loomed almost directly over their heads.

“Off you go.”

“Yes, ma’am.” Maybe it really would be _‘two shakes’_ then.

When sober and reasonably functional, the steps were no challenge for him. Connor hefted the box and kept it as steady as he could, climbing from the lowest level of the courtyard up to the very top of the battlements. The mountains were breath-taking even without the full glare of the sun, blue and white with their razor-sharp peaks scratching the sky. He took note of the view as he walked, setting his burden down when he came to the tower where Commander Cullen Rutherford oversaw all of the Inquisition’s considerable military forces.

He knocked twice and was told to enter, swinging the door open. The proper thing to do at that point would have been to turn and pick the box back up, bring it inside, and excuse himself. Or even better would be if he asked if now was a bad time and offer to come back later. What was not a good, proper, or effective thing to do was stand there petrified for a very loud moment with the door wide open letting all the warm air out of the office. But that was what Connor did, he stood there, thunderstruck, as if it were somehow so very inconceivable that the head of the Inquisition’s forces would have any reason to converse with the head of Ferelden’s Grey Wardens.

“Maker’s Breath, Guerrin, we’re not dragons.” Commander Rutherford’s voice stated from somewhere further inside the room. “Come inside and shut the door.”

Idiotically, Connor forgot the box he’d been sent to deliver and stepped into the room. As soon as the door latched shut he remembered it and his stomach started tying itself in knots. He turned to-

“ _Guerrin_.”

“I forgot, sir, the delivery, I-”

“I’m not sure what you’re referring to, but it can wait. Come and have a seat.”

“Y-Yes sir.”

Commander Cullen’s office was lit by several clear windows set high in the tower walls, a roaring hearth offering warmth and more light in addition to several stacks of half-melted candles. His wall was cluttered with books, discarded swords and arms that must have had some significance laying in the corner. The Commander’s desk was clear, and the tall man in his fur robe and shining breastplate set himself down easily in his chair behind it. He gestured for Connor to take one of the seats across from him.

Connor did as requested, but not without first casting a very nervous glance at the other person in the room. The Warden Commander did not sit, and he was no longer wearing the armour that had been so surprising to Connor while on the road. He wore a mage’s robe, visibly thin but quite ornate with gold worked along the wide sleeve cuffs, broad hem and decorated front. It was a deep, royal blue with gold bands around the elbows, a heavy gold belt cinching it shut. But it moved too lightly to be his only covering, and when he raised his arms to fold them across his chest, the sleeves of a black shirt were visible up to his wrists. His staff, that twisted two headed serpent of gold, was resting against the wall behind him. When Connor looked at him, he felt a trickle of cold sweat go down the back of his neck- the Warden was watching him closely, and the Commander was just as focused in front of him.

The Warden Commander’s gaze broke away for a moment and looked at Commander Rutherford for an instant, and Connor realized too late that he missed something pass between them. The elf inclined his head to the other officer and moved to stand at the edge of the desk, clearly indicating that he was part of whatever this talk should be.

“No need to look so worried, Guerrin,” Rutherford said, breaking the suffocating silence. “You’re not in any trouble. Quite the opposite really.” Connor doubted that. How much of a fool had he made of himself last night that it warranted being brought before two of the highest ranking people in Skyhold? “Let us begin then,”

“If I-” Connor stammered, interrupting and feeling the cold sweat down his shoulders when he realized he’d just interrupted _Commander Cullen Rutherford_. He felt himself go white and coughed out what he’d tried to say. “Begin _what_ , sir?”

“An evaluation.” He was going to faint. “Connor Guerrin, you arrived here at Skyhold almost two years ago when the Mages of Redcliffe joined the Inquisition to help seal the Breach and stop Corypheus. What are your rank and official duties, as you understand them, here at Skyhold?”

His mind whirred with white noise for several seconds too long. It was enough of a break for Commander Rutherford to incline his head questioningly at him.

“You… work as a medic, yes?” Rutherford prodded him.

“Yes sir.” Connor gasped.

“Excellent, what do you do?”

“I’m an Apprentice, sir. My mentor was killed by Templa- I mean, in the war, and I didn’t do much of anything in Redcliffe. Here at Skyhold, I assist Lead Medic Clarice. I make bandages and simple poultices, set broken bones and minor wounds. When she allows it, I offer my magic to help heal deeper wounds. Sometimes she needs help lifting or moving heavy things, so I assist with whatever I can.”

Silence greeted his explanation, but at least it was silence Commander Rutherford nodded through. Then he asked his next question.

“My condolences for your Mentor, but have you been assigned to a new teacher?”

“No, sir.” A pause…

“After your Mentor’s death, how long were you in Redcliffe?”

“Almost two years, sir.”

“And were you not assigned a teacher at Redcliffe?”

“No, sir. I was given labour at the docks, hauling ropes and timber.” Rutherford’s face clouded in confusion, scowling at him. “I’m sorry, sir.”

“In the two years since Redcliffe,” The commander pressed, “Here at Skyhold, Grand Enchanter Fiona has not appointed a new Mentor to you?”

“No, sir.”

“Has she given you a reason why?”

“I- Apprentices cannot just approach the Grand Enchanter, sir.”

“No other mages have noticed your utter lack of guidance? You’re a fixture of the medic’s compound.”

“I, um, thank you, sir?” Connor fidgeted hard in his seat, rubbing his sweaty palms on his knees. “They say I do good work, that I’m being useful, and usually leave it at that. I have no place in battles and that is where most of the mages here at Skyhold found their purpose. Or in research, but I’m not nearly smart enough for that, sir.”

Rutherford sat on this information for a moment, bringing one hand up and rubbing his fingers down across his upper lip to his chin.

“My time as a Templar taught me the technical difference between an Apprentice and a Mage, but what do you think of it? Does remaining Unharrowed affect your ability to serve?” This answer, at last, was easy.

“Yes sir, of course it does.” He almost sighed the words, “It’s like you’ve got a blindfold on and a stick in your hands, waiting, but you don’t know for what, or if the stick will do you any good if you end up needing it.”

“An odd metaphor, but one I’ll accept.” There were several seconds of quiet again, before the Commander spoke.

“One more important question, Guerrin, and then I’ll get to the heart of this beast.” Rutherford explained, shifting in his seat and leaning forward, placing his elbows on his desk. “If you woke up tomorrow, or next week, or next month a Harrowed mage, what would you do with that?”

Connor sat there for a long moment, swallowing hard around the dry patch at the base of his tongue, and struggled to take his mind that far.

“I don’t know what you mean, sir.”

“What I mean is this,” Connor looked up and realized how very focused Commander Rutherford was on him. “This is a new world, Connor, a changing, dangerous world. You are a part of the first generation of mages in several ages to have more than one path laid out in front of you.” This…

“I don’t understand, sir.”

So Rutherford explained.

“Ten years ago every apprentice mage was the property of the Chantry and Circle of Magi, you belonged to them and had to do as you were told. Today, as a hold-over from the Circles, those who call themselves apprentices are automatically lumped in with Grand Enchanter Fiona’s college. But the College of Enchanters is new, weak, and incredibly fragile, and furthermore, it’s left you as little more than half a step above an outright Apostate. Your training was abandoned when your Mentor died, everything else you’ve done has been of your own choice even if it hasn’t felt that way. You chose to go to Redcliffe and not the Witchwood, you then came to Skyhold and have stayed here for two years, working day in and day out to earn your keep. As far as I’m concerned, if you’ve a place with anyone then it’s the Inquisition.”

Connor reeled at this, but… not as bitterly as he should have.

“Mages belong in the Circle, sir.” He recited dumbly.

“Then after your Harrowing, you can commit yourself freely to the College of Enchanters. I’m sure they’d be glad to have you.” His Harrowing would never come at this rate, but yes, that had been the idea… “Or, once your status as a capable, culpable mage is assured, you can accept my offer as leader of the Inquisition’s forces and join with us instead.”

He’d been looking at his hands, rubbing his palms back and forth on his legs, but now he looked up.

Beside and above him, the Warden Commander took a sudden breath. It almost sounded like he huffed.

“I’m sorry?” Connor answered, staring at Commander Rutherford.

“You heard me.” The officer said, a smile pulling at his scarred lips as he sat up straight. “You’re a talented medic, patient, diligent, and with the right training you could easily be adapted to the field. If not as the healer on excursions, serving as you bravely did with Harding’s company three days ago, then as a Lead Medic yourself. Skyhold could always use more authoritative hands, and if that doesn’t suit you or Lead Medic Clarice, then Emprise du Lion or the Western Approach would be lucky to have you.”

His head was _spinning…_

“You… you’re not serious?”

“Of course I am.” Rutherford insisted. “You wouldn’t rise so high at all once, there would be training, instruction, and plenty of opportunity for you to gain both confidence and experience. It wouldn’t pay marvellously, but the stipend would leave you comfortable.” He… he really was serious. Connor felt himself getting overwhelmed by it. A stipend? Training? A rank?

“But I’m an Apprentice…”

“And we’ll have to find a way to fix that as soon as we can no matter what you choose to do with yourself.” Rutherford leaned back in his chair, grinning openly, and even raised his arms up and threaded his fingers behind his head. It was such a casual, easy-going posture that Connor found it strangely out of place. When the Commander turned his head and grinned at the Grey Warden hovering at the side of the desk, his smile was clearly gloating.

“Beat _that_.” He said, like a challenge. 

Confusion swamped him and Connor twisted in his seat to look at the Warden Commander. His fleeting hopes were quashed when he saw the look on the elf’s face.

“I can’t.” Ferelden’s Hero uttered tightly. His lips were drawn thin and the words barely eeked past them. Where his arms were folded, his scarred hands were visibly gripping, digging hard into his elbow and forearm. His breaths were deep but harsh, the skin around those wide, eerie elven eyes tight. His gaze flickered from Rutherford, to the desk, back to the other Commander. When he chanced a quick look at Connor his attention barely hung on. Instead he just stood there and shook his head.

“Come now, that’s no fun.” Rutherford said, but his smile had dropped and he was sitting properly again. He seemed confused. “I didn’t butter up the offer to upstage you either, it had been on my mind since I read Harding’s report.”

“I’m not accusing you of anything, Cullen.” The Warden answered carefully, but it was obvious he was displeased. “But I know the value of your offer, and I can’t argue with it.”

“You must have had something up your sleeve!” Rutherford insisted, half-way out of his seat when the Warden pulled a half-turn away from the desk, rubbing the back of his neck with one hand. “Surana. We can’t do anything with him until he’s Harrowed anyways, this was just to let him know he had options beyond being the College’s medical monkey.”

“Ouch?” The Warden’s voice was dark.

“Hey!” Connor didn’t mean to speak up, but he wasn’t a _monkey_.

“Oh hush,” Rutherford scolded them. “You both know what I meant.”

Silence fell. Commander Rutherford was focused on the Warden, whose turn it was to speak, but he didn’t seem willing to do so. Connor was too confused and bashful to try making a peep. He was still turning it over in his mind. He, Connor Guerrin, a fully-fledged mage in service to the Inquisition as a healer for their troops. It was certainly far more than sleeping in the medical tents had given him.

Commander Surana finally sighed and turned back to look at Connor and Rutherford. His face was grim, but his arms had fallen to his sides. He gave Rutherford a grim stare, but then softened visibly, and looked at Connor.

“The third option, which you do not have to accept, is an offer to join the Grey Wardens.” Connor… didn’t even really react to that. “To join my company of Wardens specifically. You would receive your training from me both as a Warden and as a Mage.” Had he just… did that mean…?

“You have the discipline to become a fine healer, but would also require a significant amount of combat training as well which I can provide. But it would not be a comfortable life, Connor.” No, it wouldn’t. But- “The Grey Wardens exist to beat back the Blight and kill Darkspawn wherever they roam, we never settle in one place for very long, and are all but guaranteed an early death in battle. Furthermore, after the tragedy at Adamant Fortress and with our ties to Weisshaupt severed, now is perhaps not a good time to bring new members into-”

“I accept,” Connor blurted out.

Commander Surana’s word blundered to a stop and Rutherford dropped an oath.

“What?” The elf grunted, surprise slowly creeping into his blue eyes.

“I changed my mind,” Rutherford complained, “Don’t make your offer.” Connor stood, his entire body shaking.

“If the Wardens will have me, then I accept.” The words escaped him in a breathless rush. “You ended the Blight, you saved my family and my father’s life. I- all of Ferelden owes you more than we can ever repay. If I can, at all, in _any_ way, help you: then my life is yours.” Was- should he get down on one knee? Was he supposed to bow?

Warden Commander Surana’s large elven eyes lightened as Connor’s answer sunk in. The smile pulled his lips wide and up, showing his teeth as he gave a soft, breathless laugh, then nodded and offered Connor his hand. Connor took it immediately in a sweaty, light-headed shake.

“There’s a stipend, too.” The Commander added.

“ _I accept_.”

“Or you know-” Rutherford’s voice intruded from somewhere insignificant. “You could take a few days to sit down and rationally go over all of this, make your considerations, think it through and-”

“You’ve had him for two years, Cullen: shut up.” Surana spoke without breaking his smile, and with a firm, approving shake, he gave Connor a tug and smacked him on the arm. “I’ll make the arrangements with the College.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“We leave at the end of the week.”

“ _Thank you, sir!_ ” And it was decided.

He was going to join the _Grey Wardens._


	6. The College of Enchanters

There was no point even trying to pretend that nothing momentous had happened to him. Connor’s feet wouldn’t even touch the ground, not from Commander Rutherford’s tower to the Medic’s tent, to dinner that evening, to bed that night. Nothing could burn the stars out of his eyes, he didn’t even know enough to wear anything but star-struck shock on his face the entire day.

He knew that soon the guilt would catch up. The dread and fear would rise and drag him back down to cold reality. But for those few brilliant hours up on Skyhold’s battlements he felt _free._ And he clung to it. He clung to that freedom and those stars and rode them as far as they would take him. Even when some of his unease did resurface later that evening, his resolve survived it. This was _right_ for him.

As a child, no, Connor had never dreamed of joining the Grey Wardens. At least not in so many words. But he’d certainly imagined and reimagined what it would be like to meet his saviour again: the Hero of Ferelden. The past few days had not lived up to those boyhood expectations, but he couldn’t arguably say he was disappointed in the past week either.

The Blight had been a terrible time for everyone, and Ferelden as a nation was wildly lucky to have survived at all. While it had been happening, Warden Surana understandably had had no real time for Connor. His possession and the events at Redcliffe, though dire, had really been little more than yet another obstacle on the Grey Warden’s path. Connor and his family had been both grateful and deeply indebted to Surana personally, at least that had been Connor’s opinion of things, but once he’d left for Kinloch Hold there had been no real word sent to him about what was happening outside the Circle’s walls. If the gossip and heresy of life since the Circle’s rebellion was to be trusted then it seemed House Guerrin was infinitely more interested in King Alistair in Denerim than having much to do with Arl Surana of Amaranthine. Helping one Warden in practice was probably just as good as helping the other, but there was no denying the air of the same old Ferelden Politics at play between Arls, Banns, and the Denerim court.

All of that aside however, for Connor himself and through the years spent in the Circle, he had been grateful. Warden Surana had been under no obligation to treat Connor to the few fleeting moments of kindness that he’d been shown back during the Blight. Those first hours after waking up on the floor of his father’s chambers, body wracked with pain left behind by the vanquished demon. The confusion and chaos of his fade visions which had haunted him for years afterwards and still occasionally crept up on him. It hadn’t been necessary for Warden Surana to check on him personally and watch him after the demon had been driven off and killed. It hadn’t been his responsibility to seek Connor out in the castle when the Warden and his companions had returned to Redcliffe with the Sacred Ashes necessary to heal his father, or to repeat the curtesy in the few semi-calm days before his father and the Warden had gone to Denerim for that fateful Landsmeet.

Connor had seen him again, briefly, at King Alistair’s coronation after the Battle of Denerim. And then not again until the First Enchanter’s funeral seven years later. Even that didn’t really count as having met him again, only seen. The Hero of Ferelden had not noticed Connor directly from the Blight until Connor had woken up inside the ring of wagons with the elven mage kneeling in attendance at his side.

And now Connor had agreed to join him. The Hero of Ferelden _himself_ had invited Connor Guerrin, Apprentice Mage, to join the Grey Wardens.

He spent that entire first night wide awake on his cot, grinning like a fool.

It was no surprise when he woke up the next morning with his old anxiety back, a gremlin sitting at the foot of his bed.

Yesterday had been too good to be true. An offer to formally join the Inquisition, _and_ the suggestion that _he_ might be worthy of the Grey Wardens? Either he’d imagined it, dreamed it, or it was just a prank. Yet try as he might he could very easily retrace his steps and figure out exactly how he had wound up in Commander Rutherford’s office. Nothing was a blur or amiss in his memory of the day until after the conversation. He hadn’t dreamed it, but he still couldn’t quite believe it had happened. Perhaps he could bring himself around to the idea that Commander Rutherford’s offer to serve the Inquisition was genuine, but the Grey Wardens?

The Wardens were a military order and Connor had no combat experience of worth. Trained knights would always jostle and compete for Grey Warden consideration, why would an untrained apprentice receive the same honour? The only shred of combat Connor had ever seen had been a week ago in the Frostback mountains where he’d about as much good as a damp blanket inside a burning building. The burning wagons alone had probably done more to help than his magic…

It was dawn, or nearly there. In his delirium yesterday Connor had gone through his few meager possessions and purged some. An old, stained shirt had been torn to strips for the bandage pot, a broken dagger ready to return to the smiths for melting. Old exercise books and a heap of mostly useless paper were all ready for the morning fire. He had very little to actually pack, should he go anywhere, and now the bundle off clothes seemed even more pitiful.

Defeated, Connor stood up and started his day.

To his great surprise, the Medics’ fire was already burning. Light was building behind the eastern wall of the Frostbacks, but the sun was not yet properly up. Skyhold was yawning, voices drifting in and out of earshot, noises muffled by sleep. Breakfast was boiling in pots and cauldrons but half the keep was still drifting peacefully along. The reason for the burning fire was sitting across the crackling flame from him. Warden Nathaniel had sat himself down on a low bench near the fire, longbow resting next to him, black hair clean and tied back behind his head.

Yesterday Warden Surana had told Connor his company would leave Skyhold in a week’s time. That still seemed to be the case then, because Nathaniel’s vest and trousers had nothing of the road to them yet. A collar of fur and well-made gloves kept the dawn chill off him, but he wasn’t ready to march anywhere in those soft boots and deep brandy of his fabric tunic.

“Apprentice Guerrin,” The Grey Warden addressed him, his voice low to respect the early morning. “I was hoping you and I could have a moment, if possible.” Connor swallowed. This was it, the Commander had changed his mind.

“If you’ll allow me to draw some water first, then yes. Of course.” To get the bandage pot going.

“I will not impose on your duties.” The Warden answered, and Connor scurried off with his chores.

When the black cauldron was full and hanging over the Warden’s fire, Nathaniel gestured for Connor to take a seat next to him. While Connor had worked the Warden hadn’t brought his eyes up from the flames for more than a few moments here and there, often just in search of another strip of wood to lay over the red embers.

“My father sometimes spoke of yours.” Nathaniel said, his gaze roaming up to the pot and watching for the first wisps of steam. “How Arl Eamon spent most of the Fereldan Rebellion in the Free Marches while your grandfather and mine both gave their lives fighting. I wonder at the world and the Maker’s ways sometimes when two men can fight one war together, their sons go on to clash so violently in the next, and now it seems their grandsons will join arms in the same order.”

Connor watched the Warden speak with an eerie feeling in his gut. Ferelden had known peace from the Rebellion’s end to the Blight, and then from King Alistair’s Ascension until the outbreak of the Mage-Templar war. Despite those calm periods, an awful lot could go terribly wrong during brief periods of violent chaos.

“Who was your father?” Connor asked, and Nathaniel looked at him with a crooked smile tugging at his mouth.

“He was the reason I joined the Grey Wardens, and why I’ve fought so hard to remain by Warden Commander Surana’s side.” He answered cryptically. “With the Hero of Ferelden standing in front of you, no one remembers the name of Rendon Howe’s second son.”

“Why would you tell me that?” Connor asked, reeling. “I mean, why bring it up? I thought the Hero of Ferelden killed Arl Howe during the Blight?”

“He most certainly did.” Nathaniel _Howe_ agreed. “And when I journeyed back to Amaranthine for revenge and was captured, the Commander conscripted me in to the Grey Wardens.”

“I thought you said you joined because of your father?” Conscription didn’t sound like it fit, just the opposite in fact.

“I could have thrown myself on my blade in protest.” Nathaniel pointed out thoughtfully. “But I didn’t. I made a choice and although I made it for the wrong reason, that being the hope of clearing my father’s name and proving what a villain I thought Surana was, joining turned out to be the best decision of my life.” So, he’d joined out of spite then? There was pride and hallowed respect in Nathaniel’s voice, his eyes dark with memory as he spoke. “For my father’s part, honour him though I should I know now what madness he was party to. Commander Surana has given me every opportunity to clear my family’s name and build something for myself. I owe him a very great debt.”

Skyhold was waking up around them. Connor had at least one more important question before the predawn spell was broken.

“Why did you come here to tell me this?” He asked.

“Because Commander Surana has offered you a place in the company, and I want to make sure you know what that means.” The Warden told him.

“I don’t think I do.”

“If I leapt up at every chance to call myself Warden Howe we’d never last a week in Ferelden- and with good reason. But if the Hero of Ferelden asks something of me then my bow-arm and my voice are both heard long before my name, and by then only the very brash can make an issue of it. If you travel with us, Connor Guerrin, then people will see you as a Mage, respect you as a Warden, and acknowledge you as a Healer long before the words Guerrin or Redcliffe occur to them.”

“You’re saying I can hide behind him?” Connor asked, a queasy feeling pooling in his gut.

“No.” Nathaniel shook his head. “I’m saying you can give your abilities the chance to speak up before your past tries to drown it all out. You can do some good in your life without having to constantly be on your guard.”

“I don’t even know what I’d do as a Warden.” He admitted.

“Kill Darkspawn, mostly.” The casual answer wasn’t quite appreciated. “And learn from one of the most renowned battlemages in Thedas.”

“The Champion of Redcliffe,” Connor quoted.

“Maker’s Breath.” Nathaniel swore, rubbing his hands over his knees and looking up at Skyhold with a laugh. “Poor man’s got more titles than an Orlesian guest list.”

Connor bit his cheek and tried not to smile. If Nathaniel noticed then he didn’t indicate it. Without a word, the Warden stood.

“The Warden Commander is determined to see you Harrowed before we go anywhere.” He announced, an echo from yesterday. “Are you ready for that?”

“I think so, sir.”

“Then for what it’s worth, Guerrin, good luck.”

“Thank you, Howe.”

Nathaniel left.

The rest of the day felt very strange to Connor, so he kept himself quietly busy. The mess by his cot was disposed of. The rucksack he’d taken for the caravan rescue packed and repacked. If the medics noticed, they said nothing as Connor rolled his bandages, brewed his potions, and walked about the tents like it was his last day in Thedas.

Around him, Skyhold hummed. There were always rumours and gossip going around. This or that, some love affair, another tragedy, the darndest things like turnips in the fire or daggers in a barrel. But the theme of the week this time was Grey Wardens, and the genre was intrigue.

Skyhold knew there was a Commander of the Grey within the walls, but despite there being only one Commander in every nation by convention, they hadn’t seemed to make the full leap yet. They knew the elven mage walked with Commander Rutherford in the morning and dined with the Inquisitor in the gardens for lunch. He also spent a great deal of time with Madame Vivienne De Fer, one of the Lady Inquisitor’s most intimidating confidantes at Skyhold and a member of the new College of Enchanters’ councillors. Rumour had it that this Commander played the Game very well, sparking a few hairy rumours that he must have been Orelsian: a mage like disgraced and dead Commander Clarel, an elf like Madame Briala who stood behind Empress Celene’s throne. The rumours were puzzling and whimsical, fanned by the lights from Madame De Fer’s balcony which burned very late into each night.

By far the ones most uneasy with the Warden Commander’s presence were the _other_ Grey Wardens. They were the remains of the Order’s Orelsian branch who had survived Adamant Fortress a year ago and joined the Inquisition’s forces to redeem themselves. Connor didn’t know what it was that upset them exactly, or why no one simply stood up and shouted clearly that it was _Ferelden’s_ Commander of the Grey at Skyhold, not Orlais’, but it was over his head and thus out of his reach. Nothing came of it that he saw either, and maybe that was the most important part of it all.

Connor was anxious. Back in the Circle the only thing anyone really knew about the Harrowing was that the Templars would come and drag you out of bed in the middle of the night for it. If you survived your things were collected from the Apprentice quarters by the Tranquil and taken away upstairs. If you failed, your things were collected by the Tranquil and like Amara you were never seen or heard from again.

Two nights later when Connor had worried himself to sleep, it almost happened to him.

He woke up with a heavy hand over his mouth, panic gripping his insides as he kicked at the blankets. Another hand on his shoulder held him down, but then Connor’s ears unplugged.

“Shh! _Shh!_ ” The sound went, and Connor stopped struggling. He was blind in the dark, but the hand tugged on him and urged him not only up, but out of the tent.

“Commander Rutherford?” Connor whispered when the cool moonlight let him see a bit more. The Commander only hushed him again and led him quickly away from the tents. A hand beckoned the Apprentice to follow, and so he did.

“Sir?” He questioned softly, following Commander Rutherford’s hulking frame up the courtyard steps. For the man to still be wearing his armour and cloak, he must not have gone to bed yet despite the height of the moon as they climbed up the courtyard.

“Be quiet, will you?” Rutherford hushed him. “Don’t make me regret bringing you along for this. Maker knows why they insist on meeting in the dead of night, batty mages, but you might as well listen in.”

Connor asked no more questions and quietly kept up. He realized they were on their way to Skyhold’s Chantry, a repurposed building just off the edge of the gardens, but at the last minute the Commander ducked away and led Connor to a servant’s door. Through the portal was a dusty wooden staircase. They climbed as quickly and _quietly_ as the space would allow and reached another door.

On the other side of _this_ were three startled Grey Wardens and one Antivan Elf.

The silence was electric, pinpricks dancing down his arms as Connor’s mouth went bone dry. In the dim light it was obvious that Wardens Hawke and Oghren were petrified and staring with eyes only for Commander Rutherford. Warden Howe was a bit less obvious but still frozen in a narrow patch of moonlight. Zevran was the first member of the party to calm down. He gestured quickly, pointing at himself and then at Rutherford. The Commander answered with another gesture Connor couldn’t see in the mirk. Zevran smiled and put a finger to his lips. This apparently settled everything?

The only light in this high, quiet space came through a wooden lattice set up as a barricade between the upper walkway here and the chantry hall below. This place was where the hanging lights were reeled in for refilling, not a spectator booth, but that was clearly its purpose tonight. The Wardens crept one way in the darkness while Rutherford and Connor headed off in the other.

He wanted to ask what all this was supposed to be about, but kept silent for fear of his own footsteps giving them away. Rutherford had already mentioned mages and a meeting, so that had to be enough for his curiosity. This seemed a very stupid way to get into trouble, but at least he had the benefit of one of Skyhold’s highest ranking officials here beside him.

Rutherford chose a place for them to stand where the moonlight was no longer shining directly onto either of them through the wooden screen: nothing to reflect off his arms and armour then. When he gave Connor a silent nod, the apprentice crept forward and peered down through the floral pattern.

On the Chantry floor below, several pews had been put away to make room for a large round table. Moonlight passed through the massive rose window above the hall, blue mage fire was burning brightly from torches scattered around the midnight space. Papers and scrolls were out on the table, suggesting a meeting in recess, and elsewhere in the stone building were the distant sounds of voices in conversation.

“Then we shall have to see.” A stern female voice stated, words peppering against the cold stone like rain.

Then came the mages.

Connor held his breath. They strode up the aisle with proud steps, robes whispering in white, gold, red and blue. Staves slung over shoulders, gilded cuffs swaying, chins high in the perpetual glow of magic fire. They reached the table and circled it, clearly returning to familiar places, and then turned to face one another. There were no chairs, no one sat.

“Grey Warden,” Grand Enchanter Fiona’s voice filled the space. Her black hair was short and strictly pulled back, the moonlight making her hawkish nose and feather like long ears stand out boldly in the dark. “Your poor timing with this request shall not be overlooked. The College of Enchanters will hear your argument, but is not obligated to agree with it.”

“But they are obliged to listen,” The familiar voice of Commander Surana rebuked. “I have worn the title of Archmage with pride and service to the Ferelden Circle for over twelve years. The Circle was once my home, and I bear neither the College of Enchanters nor this council any ill will.”

There was a stir around the table, muted, but there.

“And yet you come here, seeking to poach from our young ranks?” The Grand Enchanter accused. Connor didn’t have to be particularly bright to sense the tension here. Grand Enchanter Fiona’s white robe was luminescent in the blue firelight, soft silver fur cradling her shoulders and her narrow waist girded with black leather and steel. Her black staff was studded with something that glittered down the handle, impossible to name at this distance. Her slim elven hands were kissed with several rings which caught both moon and magic light, increasing her regal airs.

“I come here to address the negligence paid to the College’s future.” Commander Surana, across from her, was wrapped in the crimson of an Archmage. He wore a Grey Warden breastplate, the chevron of beaten silverite marked with the outstretched wings of a griffon. His hands were hidden beneath the silverite locks of his gauntlets, the deep red of his robe was bare of any gold or patterns, the fabric itself wrapped around and folded through itself to fill out his form and give him a real presence at the table. Between the plate, his hair, and the golden body of his staff’s intertwining heads, he was almost as radiant as the Grand Enchanter. “Without new mages to fill the ranks of this new brotherhood, it will die on its feet.”

Connor didn’t think his eyes could get any wider in the dark, but the Commander’s accusation was a heavy one. Somehow the other robes and accessories from the mages between Enchanter and Commander seemed muted, lost in the shadows.

“And to that end you will take one of those new members for the Grey Wardens?” The Grand Enchanter challenged him. “Enlighten us as to the mental gymnastics you use to justify such a claim as _helping_ us.”

“Connor Guerrin has remained an apprentice of the circle for nearly as long as I have been a Grey Warden.” Commander Surana announced. “The time for his Harrowing arrived before the outbreak of the tragic war which destroyed not only the Circles but the credibility of almost every mage in Southern Thedas. There has not been a single Harrowing on record since the dissolution of the Circle- nearly fives years now! How much longer will the next generation of magic users from the Free Marches to Orlais have to wait until they can hold up their own heads and declare themselves Mages in their own right?”

“The College is in the midst of establishing itself as an organization that can care for, support, and educate Thedas’ magical population.” Grand Enchanter Fiona countered him. “Harrowing is a barbaric ritual of the past, and will not be reinstated.”

“What of the apprentices?” The Warden fired back.

“In time, a new method will be devised to prove their abilities as culpable mages.”

“It has been five years, Grand Enchanter.”

“It has been less than six months since the Breach was sealed and Corypheus defeated, Warden Commander.”

“Not one Apprentice raised to Mage in four years of fighting!” He raised his voice and his staff, knocking the solid end of it on the floor with a sound crack. “Not one Apprentice cut out of their swaddling in six months of peace!” And again. He didn’t lift the staff high, only a few inches, but when he struck down it filled the room with a whiplash.

“The world has changed, Commander!”

“The world has never been the same for a moment, Grand Enchanter!”

“And that is why we are here!” A third voice finally interrupted the brewing argument. Connor’s heart unclenched, his lungs starved for a breath he hadn’t taken in several long moments. It was obvious the two elves below were not fond of each other, Connor didn’t have to know the reason behind it but thankfully the council didn’t seem to care.

“Grand Enchanter,” Madame Vivienne De Fer’s voice was not something Connor had heard very often from the Medics’ tents, but he still knew the distinct sound of her words. “Warden Commander,” When she spoke it was like stars opened around her, revealing a towering horned headdress layered in fine silk and gold, her robes a teardrop of blue and lily white. Her fingertips caressed the air in the direction of both mages as she intruded on their near-shouting match. “We are all civil people here, with civil needs. Chief among them, I think you’ll both agree, is the need to prove ourselves.”

When First Enchanter De Fer opened her mouth it was like listening to a cat purr, the velvet of her voice smothering tempers and soothing nerves. Connor didn’t realize how close to the lattice work he came until he felt a touch at his shoulder pushing him back a little, then realized his nose had a flat mark on the end of it. He didn’t dare look at Commander Rutherford directly, but was aware of the other man folding his arms and returning his attention to the discussion below.

“But my dear Fiona,” Madame De Fer was saying, a gentle laugh winking at the end of her words. “It is very true. Mages have fallen in droves into gutters, shallow graves, and open pits for years as the price for short-sighted aggression. Divine Victoria has given us the power and authority to build a new College of Enchanters, but without any Enchanters to colleague… you see the Commander’s point.”

“I see a college without even a location to gather its members,” The Grand Enchanter rebuked her harshly. “Nevermind the means to endow those who are years out of study and practice any sort of rank or accountability.”

“But we must begin somewhere, shouldn’t we?”

“Where? In Val Royeaux? In Val Chevine? Cumberland? An issue this very council has struggled with for weeks already!” Fiona shook her head and cut the air with her free hand, as if knocking the issue aside. “I will not allow this association to grow distracted and chase every little issue as if they are all equal. The Harrowings of the past _murdered_ Apprentices. I would see us first in a position to _clothe_ them before we begin arguing about what colour the robe should be.”

“If you keep capable, willing adults fettered as children, you will lose Mages and gain Apostates.” Commander Surana warned.

“Better apostates than corpses!” Fiona shouted back, and then lifted her staff arm. “I will not send Apprentices to _demons!_ ”

She cracked her staff end on the floor just as Surana had done.

“I will not let this College fail in its infancy to every idle whim!”

The staff boomed again.

“The time for Harrowings and promotions will come, Archmage, but that time is not now!”

With the third blow the sound lashed out so hard Connor heard dust hiss down from the ceiling.

Connor’s heart had fallen so low it must have been cozying up against his stomach. He’d known it would be this way, that the College’s fledgling politics would get in the way, that the Maker would tempt him with something too good to be true and then prove he wasn’t worthy. If he couldn’t be Harrowed then he couldn’t leave the College’s oversight, not without doing exactly what Warden Surana had just warned: turning himself into an Apostate. He couldn’t do it. Redcliffe would never let him live that way.

In his disappointment Connor didn’t realize what the sound near him was for a few good seconds. Then it clicked, and he looked to Commander Rutherford where the man had his curled fingers up against his mouth, muttering to himself and staring keenly down through the lattice screen to the mages.

 _“C’mon, c’mon, c’mon, say it, c’mon…_ ” He rambled, and Connor looked back to the council.

“Demons are a fact of life, Grand Enchanter.” Commander Surana had held his words in briefly. No one had spoken between now and the Grand Enchanter’s final declaration. “For those who desire a life of study and industry, the Harrowings each of us at this table endured was cruel. The Rite of Tranquility our brethren were forced to submit to was _barbaric_. The deaths suffered at the hands of Templars in the Harrowing chamber were tragic. But in a world in constant flux, I promise you, the constant threat of demons and possession has _not_ gone away.”

The circle murmured but the Commander raised his arm, elbow bent, palm open and asking for a moment’s peace. The Grand Enchanter who was so soundly opposed to him lifted her free hand to a much smaller degree, enforcing silence. As First Enchanter De Fer had already said: they were all civil people.

Something about the way he spoke, then, suddenly changed.

“The College risks Apostacy in its infancy to protect those who fear, who are unwilling, and who are unable to face the Old Ritual.” Commander Surana had been born in Ferelden and raised in the highly educated confines of Kinloch Hold. His words held the strong, familiar flavour of academic Ferelden. He had come into this meeting with a lot of fire in his breath and thunder in his voice, but now he sounded more like the mage Connor had met on the Inquisitor’s way: calm. Almost soft. But it was the softness of bruised flesh, of a heavy poultice. It didn’t hurt to hear, but held your attention with the subtle, barely-there awareness that it could hurt or sting you deeply if you weren’t careful. “But what of those who _are_ willing?”

“They will wait.” Grand Enchanter Fiona answered him. Her voice was also much lower now, softer than before, but it didn’t have the same lingering threat to it. The Commander shook his head.

“What of those who are willing to _fight?_ ” He asked her. “For all its traumas, the Harrowing served its purpose. Grand Enchanter you were a Grey Warden, and First Enchanter De Fer is a member of the Inquisitor’s inner circle, privy to horrors that are more common now than ever.” Commander Surana leaned forward, placing his free hand, knuckles curled, on the top of the table. “Every mage at this table has _seen_ an Abomination, has _felt_ a demon at the edges of their mind, tempting them.” And then he straightened up again, casting his gauntleted hand to the rose window behind them.

“Those who fear their own magic will wait for a kinder, more thoughtful test to prove themselves with! Those who have not the grasp of their magic will wait for a softer Harrowing. But what of those who want to _fight?_ What of those apprentices who have spent the last _five years_ fighting, but with no benchmark, no acknowledgment, and no respect for their skills because they are, forever to them, _Apprentices_?” Connor’s heart rose. Stupid, naïve thing. “A scholar does not need to be thrown to a rage demon to prove they can resist- but a Spirit Healer? A Knight Enchanter? A _Grey Warden?_ Harrow them!”

The air was still. The entire Chantry felt frozen, all eyes on the Elven warden, gold staff in one hand, open palm facing his immediate audience.

“Do not drag them from their beds, do not shroud the test in secrets and whispers- but Harrow them!” He struck his staff on the floor. “Ask them, offer it to them. Be honest with them of the risks, of the dangers, of the reality that they may die only months or a few more years shy of a softer test, but speak to them and _listen!_ Harrow them!” He struck the floor.

“Honor those who fought this war for all mage-kind though they had not the training or the titles to do so! Harrow them!” Again he cracked, and a hair behind it came First Enchanter De Fer’s staff to join him.

“Make Mages of your Apprentices, make Mentors of your Mages. Where are the Enchanters of the new College?” He chanted, his voice so strong and so loud. “Do not let this movement die like our brothers and sisters in the war that brought us here! If the young will fight: Harrow them!” A shadowed mage joined the first two when their staves struck the floor. The council rippled with the power of words. Staves rose, and when the next crack came it became a boom of agreement.

The Hero of Ferelden stopped speaking after that. He’d made his argument the way the Grand Enchanter had told him, and now they were answering him. Staves rose and fell, the slow, recurring beat sped up like a heart newly filled with blood. The whiplash became a drum, a giant’s hand beating the walls of the chantry in a steady, powerful roar. Four Enchanters, then seven. No voices, just the light of the mage fire burning high against the moon beams, the beating heart of the new college growing louder and stronger, finding its rhythm until the only remaining chord belonged to Fiona.

Connor expected her to look irate. For her ears to hiss with steam and her face to shrivel up like a piece of ancient wood. This did not happen. Instead, the Grand Enchanter looked around the table, she met the eyes of those who made up her College, her hope.

 She raised her staff and struck the floor with the rest of them, a softness brushing across her face as she nodded slowly and let her arm cast her vote to pass the unanimous motion. The first distinct act of magic passed through them when she joined the ring, light firing off each staff end and igniting their heads: crimson, emerald, azure, amber, goldenrod. The floor lit itself up and lines drew themselves across the surface of the round table, connecting in an intricate web of light that filled and fleshed out the symbol of the College: a hand print emblazed with a light in the palm. It ratified the vote.

Connor backed away from the screen as the crash and boom of the mage’s staves broke apart: each one beating their staff to the floor like applause, voices raised and repeating back words and promises to one another. He backed away and felt something kicking at his chest, tickling his ribs. Commander Rutherford grabbing and shaking him at the shoulder barely registered.

He started jumping. Bouncing. He didn’t know why- or he did, but he didn’t know why he picked _bouncing_ of all ways to express it.

“I’m to be Harrowed-” he gasped with no fear of being overheard by the loud chaos of the council below. “Harrowed!” His hands were up in front of him, they didn’t even look like his hands! He shook himself, he jumped! “Me! A _Mage!!_ ”

“Haha! Good on you, Guerrin!” The Commander gave him another shake, then clapped him roughly on the shoulder hard enough for his gauntlet to bite through Connor’s sleeve. “Now let’s get out of here before they hear us- quickly now! _Quiet!_ ”

“A mage!”

“Hush, boy! Down the stairs!”

He left laughing. Oh, laughing the way he never had before.

A _Harrowing…_

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


	7. They Called It The Harrowing

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Couldn't remember if I'd updated today or not, my bad.

Connor didn’t sleep that night, he didn’t even go back to the medical tents until it was nearly dawn. Instead he climbed Skyhold’s battlements and stared down into the frozen valley below. His heart felt lighter than he could ever remember it being, and he grinned out into the cold dark.

The butterflies had eaten through his stomach by morning. He was clumsy and anxious, jumping at every little thing. It was well over an hour into the working day before a mage in shimmering green robes came and collected Connor from his duties. The mage said little, leading Connor through Skyhold’s library where a collection of young people who were all close to him in age were gathered, about twelve in all. Once they were seated an Enchanter approached them and set up a large blackboard against the wall.

They spent the rest of that morning learning about the Harrowing. And it wasn’t a vague or ominous threat, but rather direct and to the point. They threw the cover off an ancient machine for the first time, examining the nuts and bolts, breaking down the terrifying task into its component parts. The purpose, its history, the cruel rationale were laid bare. The role of raw liquid lyrium in the ritual was explained in great detail as well. What kinds of demons were most commonly faced was discussed, and there was even a testimonial read aloud to them.

The testimonial was the most intriguing part of that morning. The mage who’d written it explained that almost as soon as they’d entered the Fade they’d encountered a spirit claiming to be a failed apprentice, and that spirit had helped them the entire time they were in the Fade before asking if there was any way to be carried through across the veil once the demon had been slain. The warning was explicit: demons only desire to cross the veil and they do not have to kill you in order to do it, merely tricking you will suffice. The Enchanter was visibly offended when another apprentice asked if the testimonial was his and he cut off the lecture.

“The College of Enchanters has ruled that no Apprentice be forced through a Harrowing again,” He stated, bringing them to the point of the day’s impromptu lesson. To himself, Connor marvelled at how quickly effects from last night’s vote were being felt at Skyhold. “A new Harrowing task will be devised in the coming months. However, you were each brought here today because you have all passed the traditional age of Harrowing. For those of you who wish to do so, and you are under no obligation from the College, you may put your name forward now and submit yourself to the task that has haunted apprentices and mages in every circle for the last thousand years. It is your right, as the first generation of Free Mages in southern Thedas, to choose your own path and earn your place as fully ranked members of our brotherhood. There is no shame in taking the safer, slower path in a year’s time when the College has established its new test of competency, and I, personally, urge you to _wait_. The Harrowing is dangerous and often deadly. For those of you here today who desire a life free from fighting and warfare, please, wait.”

The Enchanter’s speech had the strong sense of a man who’d said more than he should have. He looked sleepless, perhaps he had even been at the vote last night. His plea was passionate and he reined himself in harshly afterwards because of it. The room was quiet without his voice, the decision hanging heavy over their heads. Finally, someone near the back stood. The apprentice excused himself and received a compassionate nod from the Enchanter.

Several others stood and left as well.

Connor’s hands and face started breaking out with cold sweat. He didn’t want to be the only one to approach the test. He didn’t want to be thrown into the Fade to face a demon either, really, but he couldn’t leave. He had been an apprentice for too long. First Enchanter Irving had told him he was ready. His mentor at Kinloch Hold had assured him it would be soon. Even if they had both been wrong, this had to end.

Commander Surana himself had said last night that in order to be a Grey Warden this was the right test for a Mage. In fact, it might even be the only one the Warden Commander would accept. If Connor waited because he was afraid then the Wardens would leave Skyhold and take their offer with them, abandoning him here.

He needed this. He kept his seat, lowered his eyes, and worried his hands together. He had to stay. Commander Rutherford had roused Connor last night and let him spy on that meeting for a reason. Surana had gone head-to-head with the Grand Enchanter for no doubt the exact _same_ reason. It was him. This change was for Connor’s own selfish benefit. He had to stay.

The Maker must have smiled on him because when Connor managed to lift his gaze again, there were four other apprentices waiting there with him. The Enchanter’s face was long, jowls heavy with disappointment, but then he sighed and nodded to them. He asked each of them a handful of questions: their full names and ages, what circles they had come from, the names for their mentors, and so on. He ended each public little interview with the most important question: that they recount what they had been doing since the outbreak of the war, and more importantly since the Mage’s alliance with the Inquisition.

Each of them answered calmly in turn. Connor’s words got caught in his throat and squirmed out of him too softly to be heard the first time. When it was over, the Enchanter told them to return to their assumed duties.

For whatever reason Connor got lost on his way out of the library. The round tower was his typical haunting ground when free from duties, and despite the long morning his hunger was absent. He ended up on the high balcony overlooking the ambient chatter of Skyhold’s grand hall instead. He just stood there, leaning on the banister, and let his confused mind wander.

His confidence didn’t feel shot down despite knowing what the Harrowing was, and what was coming. He should have been crying and vomiting his innards out in a corner somewhere from fright, but his insides were too confounded to come spewing out of his mouth. He wasn’t relieved by any of this either of course. He just felt… blank. A stillness had settled in him which felt eerie against the backdrop of so much sudden change.

Connor watched the masked Orlesians below him swirl around one another. They weren’t the only distinct group at Skyhold and the grand hall was _always_ a buzz of activity, but their clothing stood out the most from his vantage point. Pale blooms of silk and velvet and wool, ladies’ skirts and mens’ feathered hats. He could even see the pointy noses on some of their masks, but not the details. Not from this high up.

Connor’s mother had owned a mask like that- she probably still had it. All silver with tiny pearls studded across the cheeks. She’d never worn it in Ferelden of course, but he still remembered the black lacquered box it had rested in, the smell of lavender petals she sprinkled in her drawers and that had soaked into the fine wood. She’d draw him up onto her knee, silk blouse smooth against his cheek, and her fingers would loosen the box’s clasp…

“To what do I owe this disturbance?”

The memory of his mother vanished without even conjuring her face or voice, and Connor snapped up straight to face the speaker. All the heat in his body fled when he recognized First Enchanter Vivienne’s elegant form gliding towards him. Her eyes held that Orlesian smokiness to them that had nothing to do with their dark colour. It was entirely in the raised angle of her chin and the low fall of her lashes: perfectly unreadable.

“Uh-” He croaked. “My apologies-” This was her balcony. This was _her_ balcony. Skyhold knew this, he had forgotten it.

Connor fled.

“A moment, if you-” Nope! He was gone. He went away. Quickly away. Connor went so very far away. The First Enchanter had never looked directly at him before, his wobbly knees couldn’t cope with a repeat.

Connor scurried throughout the keep just to make sure that the horror of ignoring a First Enchanter couldn’t capture and eat him alive. His wanderings brought him out to the keep’s stables as the day wound down. So many daylight hours had been lost in the library that by the time he finally settled down against one of the horse’s stalls, it was far too late to try heading back to the Medics tents for more useful work.

Horsemaster Dennet, the Inquisition Cavalry’s most important figure, had worked at Redcliffe castle when Connor was a boy. Connor had recognized him after a few weeks at Skyhold, after the devastation wrought over Haven, but the last time Dennet had seen him Connor had been a wiry and weak-looking boy of twelve years. If nothing else the Circle had fed him well. He was tall as a man should be, and not as weak through the arms as many thought a mage ought to be. Horsemaster Dennet had never spoken his name or taken any notice of him on the rare times Connor found himself gazing at this or that horse in the Inquisitor’s stables, so Connor just assumed the old man didn’t recognize him. What benefit would there be in saying anything when it would just inevitably lead to the horror at Redcliffe that had seen Connor off to the Circle in the first place? There wasn’t a family in Redcliffe that hadn’t lost a brother, an aunt, a parent, why would he take the risk and hope that Dennet’s family had fared better than the rest? No. Connor kept his distance instead, and fed a few handfuls of hay to the dark brown Ferelden Forder while keeping well out of the way of any activity around the stables.

When Connor finally returned to the Medics’ tents hoping for a meal and the end of the day, the Enchanter from that morning was there looking for him. The man had only just arrived so Connor was spared some mortification at having been off with the horses and not attending to his duties, but then the Enchanter went and made a comment about First Enchanter Vivienne having asked after him and that ruined any hope Connor had of controlling his emotions. He could feel the cold, nervous sweat building under his tunic and hated himself for being such a dishevelled mess. The Enchanter said nothing, but he must have noticed it.

“Apprentice Guerrin.” The Enchanter went on to say, “I understand that time is quite important to you with regards to the Harrowing. I’ve come to ask you one last time: are you certain that this is how you wish to proceed?”

The Enchanter still had such sad eyes. Wide and dark and filled with a haunted depth. Connor let the air wheeze out of his tight lungs, shirt damp with sweat and clinging.

“Yes sir,” he pledged. The Enchanter’s sad gaze didn’t waver. He lifted an arm and gestured away from the tents, back towards the keep. There was no saying goodbye to the medics- a funny thought since the Harrowing could easily kill him. Even with that thought in his mind however, still he left without a look or a word back.

Connor followed the Enchanter across the courtyard and then around with him through a lower door into the keep. The kitchens smelled warm but the cooks kept their heads bowed to their work. The Enchanter took Connor through another door and down a flight of dark, musty stairs. The torches flickered orange and red until the final step where they burned blue…

Down here beneath the keep Connor found himself in a long, ornate hall, dusty from disuse. Several figures were standing in the blue mage fire glow: Grand Enchanter Fiona, Commander Rutherford, and-

Templars.

Connor’s blood froze and his steps halted. His world collapsed into a tunnel with him on one end and those drawn, threatening swords on the other. There were two of them: fully armed and focused knights in Chantry armor and winged helmets. They had their gauntleted hands over their sword pommels, blades bare in the blue light but pointed down to the stone floor. The room was perfectly still save the warble of the flames and Connor’s frantic heart.

“They will not harm you.” A very, very familiar voice said. From behind him there came a touch at Connor’s shoulder which made him turn in the gloom. “Because you will not fail.”

“Commander…” His voice felt intrusive in the dark space, but the Warden offered only a smile. He squeezed Connor’s shoulder for a moment and then released him as he stepped past Connor and into the room with the rest of them.

“You will not fail.” Commander Surana repeated. The elven mage was dressed in his blue robe from several days ago. His staff with its two serpent heads was hanging over his shoulder next to the notched end of his scarred ear. His strange eyes seemed to glow in the mage fire, and there was confidence in him that flowed from the place where his touch had lingered. A spell, maybe?

“Connor Guerrin,” Grand Enchanter Fiona’s voice pulled Connor’s attention back to the centre of the room. “The Dragon Age has brought innumerable changes to our world, but you have volunteered yourself for one of our oldest ways. If you will submit yourself to the Harrowing, step forward now.”

Commander Surana had stepped forward to fill a place in what Connor now recognized was a semi-circle facing him. The feeling in most of his body drained away as the Grand Enchanter’s words were met with the heavy silence. The weight of Skyhold overhead felt like it would crush him, the breath of fresh air from the stairs behind him tickling his neck with the promise of freedom if he turned and sprinted out.

It all went from sudden and immediate to woolly in his mind. He’d been swept up for so much of the day, going along with anything because he had no place to resist or think better of what was happening. It had been quick and exciting: last night’s midnight vote, this morning’s long lecture on demons and lyrium, but now…

Now it was like he’d fallen asleep on his feet with no sense left of himself. His legs moved, and soon the Grand Enchanter was much closer to him. There was disappointment in her frown. Pointed ears almost dipping low. She stepped aside to reveal a pedestal and bowl, the swirling blue starlight of raw lyrium there to greet him.

“Trust nothing but yourself,” He heard Commander Surana say behind him. “In the Fade nothing is real except what you _make_ real.” Connor heard the advice, and then the building hum of anxiety in his mind drowned the rest out.

“The Demon you will face…” The Grand Enchanter was close to him, but also very far. “…trickery, deceit…” His mind was an empty flute of cold air whipping around inside.

“I will not fail.” Connor heard himself say. His hand touched the lyrium, fingers enrobed in magic made liquid, and…

* * *

 

 _“Blast!_ ”

The world heaved. Sound and colour collided on his skin. Ankles to elbows and head the completely wrong way around.

_“Can you hear me!”_

As soon as Connor realized all of this was wrong, suddenly it all went right. He found his feet beneath him and felt ground before he could break into the panic of there being no such thing.

He took a deep breath and coughed, the air heavy with dust and cobwebs- or magic that felt like them. The grey ground was porous and mulch-laden, so soft he feared falling straight through it. Connor rubbed his eyes but the sticky fog around him did not dissipate. There was no colour. No light. No dark. No air. Was he even here? Where was here?

He struck both hands out in front of him, clinging to the fact that he still had hands the same way he still had feet, and his feet were touching the soft, spongey ground. Fire came rolling over his palms and fire was red- red with laces of yellow and fans of orange heat. He flung the magic forward and _that_ at least came as easily as his feet and head and elbows. Magic, for once or at least one of very few times, came as an immediate comfort to him.

The world didn’t reveal itself so much as it formed out of the nothingness. He breathed and smelled wet mulch, telling himself the fire had burned away the cobwebs and satisfied to find it so. One breath, two breaths, then a third… He could breathe. If he was standing on mulch then that made this a forest, and even a dark forest must have trees.

Trees, those tall, bendy things that grew out of the ground, twisted and rose and cut across a sky. A sky that must be lighter than the earth, even a night sky must be clear against the mountains and branches of the wilds.

Connor’s thoughts and his reasons bounced against the edges of the Fade, melded into it. Now he knew where he was: a forest that was not a forest. Trees made of stone but formed the way trees could conceivably be. Earth layered in dead needles and leaves that looked like no plants he had ever really seen: six pointed stars and curling loops, sprigs like fingers and palms curled around each other. He stepped and the earth was wet like the hinterlands after a constant rain.

He looked up in the half-light and through the stone branches he saw the grey-yellow abyss that was the sky. He saw the black stain over its twisted horizon. Pinpointed the towers, the great balconies, the broken walls of the Black City and somehow he felt more whole. This was the Fade. The first part of his Harrowing, at least, he’d completed. He was in the Fade.

Calming himself down Connor risked a step across the soft earth. Instead of falling through it, the ground held. He looked up at the ten-armed statue of a great man several yards away and gave himself the goal of getting there. His first steps were shaky, frightening things. Like a dwarf he honestly feared falling up into the sky.

When he made it to the statue there was a quieting sense of satisfaction. Such a simple thing, to walk twenty feet, but the accomplishment stuck with him.

“ _Connor!_ ” And then he jumped, almost flung himself up at the Black City in fright. “ _Answer me!_ ”

The words were alarming and he wondered why his heart was not thrashing in his chest. This world was so quiet that the voice slapped him on the back of the neck before scampering away like frightened foxes through the Fade’s half-light. But once he heard it, he recognized it. And once Connor recognized it, he answered it:

“Commander!?” He shouted, and looked about himself with clearer eyes than before. The place where he had started, as near as he could tell, was a low dell surrounded by spires of rock and those eerie stone trees. The path wound behind the many-armed statue whose shadow he was lingering in, and he escaped down that way.

He moved so, so much faster than he should have, up a rolling hill and past a faceless angel made of stone, then to the edge of a gaping void on the brink of amber nothingness. All of that in four steps. He reeled, senses wailing, and took his head in both hands.

“ _Something went wrong!_ ” Commander Surana’s voice called out in the gloom. “ _Connor, find me! We have to get out of here!_ ”

“Find you?” Connor bleated, “I can’t even find myself in this place!”

 _“Focus on my voice!_ ” Surana shouted, “ _Follow it!_ ” But Connor could only stand there, petrified and swallowing mouthfuls of the decrepit air.

Something had gone wrong? With the Harrowing? _Already?_ He knew they were dangerous but this-! He’d never heard of one of the testers for a Harrowing being the ones in danger!

“ _Connor I know none of it makes sense right now, but you’ve got to listen to me…”_

“I- I know!” He shouted. Rightly scared now, Connor turned away from the dismal soup of emptiness and found the path again. He went slowly, paid attention to his steps, made the ground obey simple rules and carry him only so far as he walked. No more sling-shooting him into the horizon! “I’m coming, sir!”

Where had Commander Surana been standing? Hadn’t he been so far behind Connor when he’d reached for the lyrium? Because the person closest to him had been the Grand Enchanter, then behind her had come Commander Rutherford and the Enchanter who had brought Connor down into the crypt in the first place. Neither of the Templars would have been in danger, at least he hoped not, because if you threatened a Templar during a Harrowing then they would kill you. Oh, oh wouldn’t that just be the most terrifying end to everything? Seven people went down into the crypt but only Commander Rutherford and his Templars came out?

“ _We can get out of this, Connor.”_ The Commander didn’t sound like he was shouting to be heard anymore. It must mean Connor was getting closer! “ _But we can’t both go running around the Fade or we’ll end up going around each other in circles. Follow me, Connor, we have to get out.”_

Connor followed. Suppose this meant his Harrowing didn’t count then? How would it possibly be valid if the Hero of Ferelden was right there to hold his hand throughout it? The demon, if it were smart, had no doubt fled as soon as it noticed a mage of Warden Surana’s power in its small domain.

The ground twisted and folded in unnatural ways, and at one point Connor looked up and realized the same path he’d walked had bent itself backwards and he was walking directly under- or above? what had once been his starting place. Shaken, he hurried on.

The Fade wasn’t all so dark and stagnant now. He could fee lights winking here and there, suckling at the stone trees, splashing about in the pools of water-like clarity. If they were spirits then they didn’t feel dangerous and Connor was fully prepared to live and let live. He reached wooden steps hammered into the soft ground and shuddered when he heard water splashing every time he stepped down on the notched planks. At least the dream world was _trying_?

At the base of the steps was a wide open space surrounded by stone arches. When Connor reached the ground, he felt his fears ease off a little when Commander Surana turned and saw him.

“Good! You’ve made it!” The Commander said. He had his golden staff in hand, wrapped in his blue and gold robes from the crypt. He gestured quickly for Connor to stand next to him and then pointed at the far end of the dream glade. There the stone arch was closed in a circle, and in front of it was a pedestal of warped black iron.

“That is our gateway home,” Commander Surana explained, exuding the kind of certainty Connor took great heart in. “Do you remember what your Harrowing is supposed to be about?”

“The Enchanters summoned some kind of demon, sir, and I had to kill it.” It seemed strange that the Commander would ask him that again, at a time like this.

“Exactly.” But it didn’t matter, Surana had already turned away from him and was walking toward the pedestal. "Have you done so?”

“No, sir. You told me to come here.”

“I’m only making sure.” Connor didn’t answer, he wasn’t sure if he was supposed to. Frustrated, the Commander shook his head with an ugly sigh. “I know this task was important to you, Connor, but with two mages in the Fade it changes things. We could hunt down your demon and open the gate that way, but it means risking other, more powerful creatures coming after us.”

Connor brought both hands up over his face, turning away and rubbing his skin. It didn’t feel clammy or hot, but he knew it should and shook his head. When he turned around again he ran his hands back through his hair, wiping at the nervous sweat.

“What else can we do, sir?”

“We break the ritual’s rules,” Surana answered shortly, “Bypass it in a way.”

“How?” And how would the Templars not notice something like that? How would they even react to two mages falling into the Fade instead of just the one? What if they’d _already_ acted? Would they even be able to tell?

Connor stood there fretting and didn’t even notice how long the silence between them had stretched. He came back to himself and looked to Surana, whose amber eyes-

Amber?

Blue. Commander Surana’s blue eyes were guarded and he’d held his words back, struggling with them, before he approached Connor very slowly.

“You must trust me, Connor.” He said, “Because this will not be easy for either of us.” Connor held his breath for a moment, considering. He chose his response with great care.

“I will do anything the Warden Commander asks of me.” This was not a lie. The Commander could call Connor a monkey and demand he dance around on Skyhold’s balcony and he would honestly consider doing so. But that didn’t mean he would obey right _now_ , not when the person in front of him was acting a little…

Maybe it was just the Fade? The Commander was probably just uncomfortable being here. Yes. Connor filled his head with those ideas.

“I don’t like the Fade.” Surana blurted out, justifying himself. “It is a foul place where nothing can be trusted. But you must trust me, Connor.”

“If the Hero of Ferelden says so, sir.” He complied again, telling himself very firmly _not_ to be alarmed. “How do we get out of here without killing the demon?”

“You must spill a small sacrifice of blood onto the alter, only then will the gateway home open.” Connor… _reeled_.

“ _Blood magic_ , sir?” His reaction was _visceral_. Blood magic, the cruel power that had called that demon from his childhood to Redcliffe? That had nearly poisoned his father? The same crime that Warden Surana himself had turned his once-best-friend to the mercy of First Enchanter Irving for? Warden Commander and Archmage Soren Surana wanted Connor to do _what?_

“I do not condone blood magic!” The Commander shouted at him and Connor flinched away. “But we must escape the Fade, and you must do as I say, Connor!”

“I have nothing to cut myself with, sir!” He blurted out. He had no weapons of any sort even: no staff, no blade, nothing except the trousers and jerkin he looked down and recognized himself in now. Why was _he_ being asked to do this, the junior between them, not the mage who knew magic so much more intimately? The mage who could suture a dwarf’s organs after a darkspawn attack, the one who had crafted a siphon of magic to pull Connor’s mana through a glyph and smite the Emissary that had attacked the caravan two weeks ago?

“Elven blood will not work for this spell.” Commander Surana supplied the information without Connor having voiced the question. But his answer repulsed Connor even more- enough so that he almost didn’t accept the dagger that was pulled from somewhere and given to him. “The magic of the Elvhen would conflict too much.”

That was absolute nugshit. The Tevinter Imperium had been _built_ on the blood of the Elvhen. If anything, the Commander’s blood would work even _better_ than Connor’s! He stood there with the blade’s pommel in his hand, the soft earth grumbling under his feet, and fumed in the Fade.

He remembered the Enchanter’s words from that morning. _‘In the Fade we are only dreamers. Visitors, without body or substance. The clothes we wear, the air we breathe, none of it exists._ ’ Then why would blood magic work if Connor didn’t even have blood?

“ _Trust me!_ ” The mage shouted at him, standing directly in front of Connor and taller than him, too tall. The Commander’s eyes had barely come up past Connor’s shoulders in the darkness of the crypt, how was he so tall here in the Fade? Just a representation of his own feelings? His own pr-

“Show me where to cut, sir.” Connor’s imaginary gut clenched. He let the words slither out of him and flipped through the pages of his own mind, obscuring his own thoughts, looking for other information. What little he knew about blood magic he stuffed away somewhere, and in its place he conjured up memories and emotions and things that had mattered a great deal to him before placing his hand in the lyrium.

He filled himself with memories. The elven warden, so tired and worn down by the agonies of the Blight. The kind healer’s hands which had sprinkled Andraste’s ashes over his father’s ashen body. The stories of the Battle of Denerim, the slaying of the Archdemon, the stern but effective stewardship of Amaranthine in the wake of persistent Darkspawn attacks.

He remembered his mother’s Orlesian mask, Master Dennet’s horses, Warden Surana’s mana-scarred palms.

Surana’s hands were unblemished as he reached to guide Connor’s blade to his own wrist. But the touch was gentle, it led him with a healer’s care.

Connor summoned the shield of Redcliffe in his mind: a mighty grey tower rising from a red hill. He held the tower there and in his mind he named it Amaranthine. He willed the crest of his birthplace onto the realm of Arl Surana.

“When this is over, Connor, we will go to Amaranthine together. You just have to trust me.” The mage said. And on Surana’s robe, that blue and gold beauty, the Redcliffe Shield began to repeat itself over and over again with the gold threads. Seeing it happen that way helped him. It gave Connor the confidence he needed, as the edge of the blade touched his exposed wrist, to act.

“I trust Warden Surana.” And Warden Surana had told him that in the Fade he could trust only himself. “I will not fail.”

“Connor!” The demon barked, but Connor dropped his wrist away from the blade and thrust his arm forward. His magic surged and the knife stabbed through blue and gold, hitting the firm body behind the fabric and pushing, _pushing_ -

He stepped forward, fire blackening the handle and hilt as it licked off his skin and surged down the metal, heating the blade as he shoved the demon back. The Demon’s staff hit the ground and crumbled to blackness. Claws of something hard, black and bulbous came swinging at his head, cutting his scalp and shredding away hair. One talon reached behind his head and scratched away the skin under his ear, wetting his shoulder with blood.

The Pride Demon’s claws raked down the arm it had meant for him to cut open, but Connor pushed: this was the Fade, this wasn’t his body, it didn’t have to hurt. So what if it did hurt! This was the _Fade!_ He’d been here as a child and been trapped! Tormented! Used! This monster thought it could take the face of the Hero who’d saved him, the man offering him a life beyond the futility of Skyhold’s bandage pot, and use it against him!? It thought Connor would just go along like chattel, swinging his head and trotting like a good fat sow!

The knife came out and vanished from his blood-slicked hand, another illusion that fell apart as the demon’s claws raked down him again. He threw himself forward with both hands, jamming his fingers into the stab wound and thrusting the heel of his other hand up under the demon’s chin. He screamed and cast, magic blowing through his body.

Lightning. _Thunder_. Hideous anger that surged from his rolling gut and swarmed from his fingers, blowing apart dream flesh and rending foul organs. The demon staggered and fell back away from him, distended jaw black and bleeding, eyes flashing amber and green. The mask of Surana’s fair skin and hair ripped away as twisted horns grew from the demon’s brow, the robe shredded by magic and corded black flesh. It lifted one clawed hand up at him, liquid violet energy pooling against its palm-

The tangled blue lines of a glyph flashed over Connor’s vision from his own conjuring. He spread his bleeding hands past his own face, filled the mark in the space between his fingers, and slammed it to the ground under the creature’s feet. The demon roared and the Fade convulsed around it, energy lancing the air before repelling the demon several tumbling yards away where it landed in a heap.

This was the Fade. He wasn’t here. It wasn’t real- not his clothes or his boots or his hands or his blood. If Connor wanted a staff then he could have a staff. With the demon forcing itself up he pulled his bleeding arms back, told himself he was holding a staff, and swung the rod forward.

He didn’t see it, not really. He didn’t have to see it in order to know it worked. He felt a shaft in his slippery grasp, felt the weight drain on his wounded shoulder, let his magic surge through the length and concentrate at the spire’s point. With a loud cry he brought the staff to a straight line, feet spread on the soft ground and arms rigid within the form. A lance of magic both there and not fired from the staff head, twisting the air as it flew and struck the demon, piercing its chest. Its jaw drop with a scream that barely rose up before being strangled and torn back down. The Fade rippled, it spasmed, and the ground sucked itself down with the demon’s shattered body falling into the well’s crushing grip.

The spell ran out with only the creature’s arm still visible at the bottom of a steaming pit. Its blood-splattered claws hung prone from the wrist, not even a quiver of life left in them.

The pit felt so much deeper standing on the edge of it- and Connor wasn’t even that close to the lip… He was… dizzy…

The Fade-staff vanished, or he dropped it. What mattered was his arms had begun to scream in pain, and when he looked down at them- fingers- not enough- his hand was the wrong shape… It didn’t matter, he shoved his mangled palm up against the side of his head- where that claw had cut him.

Gouged him.

That was a lot of blood…

Too deep…

He-

He fell… awake.


	8. Everything in the World

The world came back at a calm, sedentary pace. Connor felt himself taking slow, deep breaths of warm air. Then came the pleasant weight of his own body and the close swaddling of many blankets. He was aware of light touching his face and flexed his hands carefully under the warm covers. That small bit of movement relaxed his wrists and eased his arms. Waking up slowly like this was so nice… His legs came back the same way, and finally he opened his eyes.

It was curious to wake up anywhere but the medics’ tents, but still expected? The room was bricked with Skyhold’s yellow blocks, a grated window letting bright daylight down onto the bed cradling him. Connor’s heart felt light and his mind pleasantly quiet. He closed his eyes again and took his breaths calmly.

Finally, it was time to get up.

He pushed the piled blankets down slowly and sat up in bed. Dimly Connor remembered something that had frightened him, so he looked carefully down at his hands. All his fingers were whole, no new scars down his arms either when he checked them. He touched the back of his neck where he remembered gushing blood, but again felt nothing. When he turned his head and rolled his shoulders there was no pain at all. He was both safe _and_ whole.

The Fade was the realm of dreams so as long as his harrowing had been real then Connor was happy to leave things at that. He closed his eyes again and leaned back gently in bed, content.

The quiet didn’t last for long but Connor was still happy for having been given the tranquil moment. Someone tapped at the door and he sat up again, calling to let them know they could enter. He quickly folded the covers down his body and swung his legs around over the edge of the bed. He had been resting, not ill or injured.

“Ah, glad to see you’re awake.” Connor forgot his words in a very complete way when the speaker stepped inside. Mouth dry, he remembered the force and torque of a flaming dagger twisting through those blue robes. The imaginary wounds on his arms and back tingled with anxiety and Connor felt his teeth fuse together as his jaw locked.

“Congratulations on competing your Harrowing, Connor.” Warden Commander Surana said, and Connor managed only a weak ‘ _nng’_ in his throat when he nodded.

His useless reply made the Grey Warden smile, probably out of pity, and then he gestured for Connor to rise. He quickly did so and swallowed hard, nervous thoughts pestering him. The Fade was behind him now: this Commander Surana was as short as he was supposed to be, about a handspan shorter than Connor. His ear was notched and his hands, when he turned and reached for something resting on the windowsill, were blemished along the palms.

Connor also noticed, for the first time, that the Commander wore two rings. On his middle finger was a red signet ring, dark bloodstone with a wide face and an obscured image. The other was a braided loop of black iron. They stuck out because to him they were new: he’d seen Surana’s bare hands after the battle on the Inquisitor’s Way, but he’d been busy healing the injured and commanding his men. The fewer breakable pieces he wore when working, the better.

“This moment should have been your mentor’s to share with you, Maker Guide her.” Commander Surana pulled him back into the moment with the well-meant prayer. “But that loss doesn’t mean you shouldn’t enjoy it.” And then he handed Connor something very, very important.

“To celebrate your new rank within the College, I hereby confer upon you this ring-” A bloodstone signet ring, just like Surana’s. The face was etched with the open palm of the Magi, surrounded by the halo that had once defined the Circles. The ring was heavy against his palm and Connor stared down at it a bit too long, hands suddenly jittery when he pushed it onto the middle finger of his left hand. As soon as the ring was set below his knuckle, it felt warm and the weight vanished. It felt right.

“And this staff.” Surana finished.

“I…” His own staff. Not something borrowed from a Quartermaster or pilfered off a corpse. Connor’s jaw fell slack with awe as Surana lifted the staff, previously unseen where it had rested beneath the foot of his bed. The staff’s body was cast from silverite, the straight stem wrapped with black leather as the metal gleamed softly. The entire thing was cold when he accepted it, heavy for a moment before lightening into something he feared may float away. The silverite length twisted and bloomed at once end to form a spiraling cage clutching a polished green serpentstone.

Connor’s whole world was focused on the staff. It was in his hands. It was his. He _owned_ this. It didn’t occur to him to put the weapon aside and look back to Surana with a proper thank you. He just held it and then let go with one hand. The head dipped, swung, and with a flip of his flingers it jumped back around in an arc. It was so light, so well balanced- not second-hand or three times broken and repaired. He swung it in a smooth figure eight pattern before letting it slow down.

“Th-Thank you, sir!” he finally stammered, realizing that the warden was watching him closely. The pleased turn to his lips didn’t make Connor feel any better.

“You’re very welcome, Mage Guerrin.” He answered, but then his smile faded and he wet his lips quietly. “Now, I understand that you may still be tired from your ordeal and desire to rest further, but I do have an important question for you.”

Connor’s heart clenched. Painfully.

“If I’m able then I will answer, sir.” He promised. Awkwardly. Badly.

Commander Surana hesitated and that made Connor even more nervous. Here it came: the Warden had changed his mind about Connor.

“The Inquisition’s offer to you still stands,” he said. Connor’s world cracked in half. He was about to be told to take Rutherford’s offer and stay with the Inquisition. Become a healer and lead a squad of medics, stay in the College, keep doing the same thing he had for the last four years. Maybe life in a medical corps wouldn’t be so _bad_ , but- “As does the Grey Warden’s.” Huh-? “Are you still committed to the choice you made four days ago?”

“Maker, has it only been that long?” It felt like weeks since he’d stood in Commander Rutherford’s office. “I mean- absolutely, sir. Yes!” His enthusiasm just made him sound like an idiot. Connor’s jaw flapped stupidly and he fumbled through the act of making more words. “I mean- it’s just that, after Redcliffe I would understand if- or if you were-” Commander Surana held up one scarred hand, palm facing him.

“I’ve spent enough time talking in circles here at Skyhold, Connor.” He said. “We’ll speak plainly. Do you wish to join the Grey Wardens?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Are you willing to dedicate your life to fighting Darkspawn and keeping back the Blight?”

“I am, sir.” At least he thought he was. He couldn’t think of a better use for himself- rotting away in Skyhold hadn’t done him any good.

“Have you any reservations about this decision, Connor?”

Connor’s tongue shrivelled up in his mouth and he felt his throat tighten as if he were going to cough all of his insides out. Reservations? Doubts? Fears? Concerns? Like fleas on a Mabari, of course he did.

All it took was that extended pause from Connor to make the Commander’s expression dim with disappointment.

“I’ll take that as another yes, then.” He said, his voice heavy with many things unspoken. Something in Connor’s body withered up from shame, maybe it was his liver.

“I- I’m sorry, sir.” He admitted, defeated.

“Don’t be.” Surana answered with a sigh. “The Grey Wardens don’t just ask for a lot, they demand everything we are or could want to be.” The Warden’s eyes travelled around the room as he spoke, landing at the foot of Connor’s bed again and resting there before he found his words again. The disappointment lingered, but at least it lessened, and he gestured to whatever he was looking at.

“There’s a gift you on the chest there.” He said. “If you’re truly committed to joining the Wardens then put it on and join my men at Skyhold’s main gate at noon today. We’ve tarried long enough and will be many miles away by nightfall.” There was something deeply serious in the way he said it. When Surana tried to brighten up and smile, it was clearly forced. Something was bothering him and it was obviously Connor.

“Whatever you decide to do, know that I was both proud and impressed when you completed the Harrowing as quickly as you did. Congratulations, Connor. You’ll do great things as a mage.”

“I… Thank you, sir.”

Commander Surana nodded with his false smile and then let himself quietly out of the room. He left Connor with more belongings and fewer organs than he’d started with, plus a great deal to think about. Faced with a veritable mountain of unpleasant things to bury himself in, Connor’s mind picked up on the least important one in the pile. What gift?

When the door latched he flung himself around the bed and snatched up the _‘gift’_. He then nearly dropped it because it was _heavy_ , cumbersome, and he refused to put his staff down first. The parcel bent and collapsed like fabric and the entire bundle was wrapped in butcher-paper and twine, a folded slip of paper tucked under the knot. Although it had been resting out of sight on the room’s storage chest Connor still felt stupid as he set both the bundle and his new staff down on the messed bed. How had he missed this? What sort of fool woke up in a new place and then lounged around like an oaf rather than get up and look around? A fool like Connor Guerrin, apparently.

He fussed about the room looking for a knife to cut the twine. Using magic did occur to him but it felt careless. As he rummaged through the room he also pulled the note out and unfolded it.

 _Ser Guerrin_ , the page read in a rigid hand, the ink blotted. _Before your departure from Skyhold, do take a moment to come by the stables. – Horse Master Dennet._

Connor read the note, the name, and then read it again: the name.

Forget _careless_ , he dropped the note on the bed and took the twine knot in both hands, pulling the whole bundle up. A spark of need and he pulled the burnt threads off, unwrapping the paper as quickly as he could.

The first thing he saw made him laugh: a knife! A bronze hilt and a darkly stained wooden sheathe, both new, with an iron band wrapped around the sheath to keep it tightly sealed together. When he pulled an inch of steel out he knew it was sharp, ready for whatever use he put it to. It was long enough for cutting nearly anything, but a far cry from a fighting dagger. Not long enough, too thick, too nice to get blood on.

He realized now that there were many things in the bundle. Below the knife was a harness: wool felt and folded tan leather, a metal hook down the back was meant to hold his staff, a leather loop at another point for the dagger, and a strap to belt around his waist and hold the harness firm to his body. There was a steel buckle for adjusting the length attached to it: a griffon’s head and wing faintly etched into the metal. Connor didn’t put the harness on because again: there were several things wrapped up in front of him, and the next one was by far the most important.

At first all he saw was soft white fur, poked in places with tiny dots of black. His hands relished the smooth feel of the pelt before he pulled it up, surprised by the weight, and the length, and the… style- a robe. This was a _robe._

The air left his lungs. Maker, it was _gorgeous…_

He didn’t know what animal had given up its skin for it, but the robe’s white lining was warm and thick. The outside was soft leather panels sewn long down the body and legs, split in the front, back, and sides to make anything from running to riding much easier. He felt the garment and found bones of something stiff reinforcing the body of it. There were pockets and still cradled in the paper was a belt to go with it. When Connor let the excitement get to him he pulled the robe over his shoulders and felt a spark of magic take hold. The hook-and-eye silverite clasps down the front snatched themselves together and it felt like the robe breathed around him before settling down into exactly the right fit. The collar was cut high and close, more boning giving it that extra bit of protection. The fur brushed warmly at his jaw and down the backs of his hands. The sleeves themselves were woven strips of cured hide, metal plates worked in at the elbows and hidden in the seam across the top of his wrist. Warm and heavy and strong, nevermind the magic humming through it. Maker above, it was the most Fereldan thing he’d ever seen, let alone worn, and it was _his._

He was almost giddy, too shocked by what he was finding and feeling to have room for worry. These were a battlemage’s arms. It was uncanny. He might actually, quite possibly, do something with himself? With his magic? Something that would make a dent in the debt on his soul before he stood before the Maker? Connor’s hands crawled down the robe, feeling the stitches, bones, buttons, and clasps. For all the horror of the Inquisitor’s Way, it had brought him this morning and that made it all worth it.

He hurriedly attached the belt and then fumbled his way into the harness. His staff- _his_ staff. It easily caught the hook at his back when he swung it around, and with a good tug it came free.

The simple _magic_ in the robe was readily apparent to him. He felt warm and protected, a tranquil pool of magic lapping in his mind and putting mana right at his very fingertips. It was a warm basin to dabble in, a buffer against the suffocating fear that came with extinguishing his own power with too much excitement.

Connor sat down on the bed again and tried to collect himself. There were tears, not too many, but he was happy to be alone. His boots were half-on when he became distracted by the signet ring on his left hand. He spun it, pressed his thumb into the pattern, spun it again, took it off and looked at it, put it back on and touched the symbol to his lips. When he was almost done being fascinated by the ring, he picked up the note from Horsemaster Dennet and read it again. He was so confused, spun around in a dream that evoked all the opposite emotions from his Harrowing. If he was scared then he couldn’t feel it through his elation.

He folded and slid the note into the inside breast pocket of his robe, and that was when he noticed something about the inner seam. No one but Connor, the person who’d made the robe, and the one who’d commissioned it would know of the detail, but it was there and it struck something in him. The buckle on his harness and belt both had the Grey Warden griffon, but here…

Where fur and leather met there was a good inch of leather folded in against him. This had been stitched and possibly glued in place, but it had also been pressed. Stamped. Each stamp had been round, a ring of indented hide, but inside that ring was the Hill and Tower of Redcliffe. The mark had no colour but the press had been strong and the leather supple. He followed the seam and the stamps up. They started at the belt, wound up along the inside of the collar, and went down the other side. As he searched the robe he noticed the two heavy metal buttons at the heel of each palm were etched with griffon wings the same as his belt and buckle.

He collected himself slowly, and when he felt a little more ready Connor made a final sweep of the room. In the corner he found his rucksack half-filled with all his possessions from the Medics tents. There were also two new bundles of elfroot, several rolls of his bandages, a set of glass vials and four filled with several different, useful, solutions. There was no note, but that was alright: he hadn’t said goodbye either.

With all of his treasures Connor finally left the room. He was in an unfamiliar part of Skyhold but simply followed his nose until he found the kitchens. He’d worried the robe and staff would make him stand out strangely, like the world would deny him the simple right to own them, but nothing came of it. The cook just foisted a bowl of ram meat and potatoes at him with the usual lump of bread. He was just another adventurer, another mage who had something that needed doing and a belly that needed filling. He scarfed the hot meal and hurried on his way outside.

By the sun’s light there was less than an hour before noon. Despite how badly his answer had disappointed the Commander, Connor was still going to try his luck. He would become a Grey Warden or he’d humiliate himself while trying. But first he had a letter he needed to answer, and as long as he didn’t linger too long then he could risk it. He cut through the brisk daylight for the stables, hoping that-

Master Dennet wasn’t there. Connor’s hopeless stupidity made him burn up. He fumbled for the note he had clearly misread but, he followed the words, the ink blots, the meaning. He hadn’t gotten it wrong. This wasn’t his mistake? It must have been, he was always doing _something_ wrong. He’d probably taken too long to come and that was why Dennet had left.

Where the Horsemaster would be except for in the stables was a mystery to him. Maybe the man had human needs and didn’t spend his every waking moment around horses, but that just didn’t seem reasonable.

He loitered. The robe made the Frostback cold nothing worth noting, his staff occasionally knocking his calves as he paced. Finally, daylight burning, he wrestled himself into making one final goodbye.

“You don’t know me from any other pair of hands,” he grunted, nervous about wasting too much time here. He handed a bright carrot stalk to the Ferelden Foarder from yesterday and rubbed the mare’s snout when she nosed him. She was saddled and ready for something, a grey wool blanket cushioning the saddle on her back where it was firmly strapped. Her bridle was hang ning below her chin however, and while she’d been walking around a pen when he approached it was clear she wasn’t to go riding off this very instant. “But good luck with whatever it is horses do.”

“At her age, not much.” A gruff voice declared, making Connor jump. “Sorry to keep you waiting, Ser. There were last minute repairs needed for one of your companions.”

“Master Dennet!”

“Ser Guerrin.”

The Horsemaster had become very old. Connor had seen him now and then within Skyhold and knew there had been many long years between Redcliffe and now. Master Dennet was a tall man, but he’d aged from Connor’s boyhood. No more hulking giant with leather reins in one hand and three saddles on his shoulders- although rightly enough there _was_ a set of reins with him at the moment. His dark hands had withered and now they held a cane opposite the leather straps, his black beard gone snowy white and one eye surrendering slowly to cataracts. His clouded gaze was focused on Connor now, measuring him like he were a colt in need of gelding.

“You’ve grown into a fine young man, Ser Guerrin.” He finally announced.

“Oh- there’s no need for titles, Master Dennet.”

“I know the Chantry laws about Mages and titles, _Ser_ Guerrin, but I’ll call Arl Eamon’s son what he is regardless, thank you.” Connor squirmed at the rebuttal and let something a tad too bitter slide out of him.

“That could be many things, depending on who you ask.”

“Then I’ll ask you!” Dennet retorted. He may have been well on in years and losing his strength, but his voice still barked like it had years ago. “Is it true that you’re to be a Grey Warden? It’s not the juiciest gossip at Skyhold, but I’ve heard it enough times a day to be curious.” Connor’s nerves didn’t flare up at the question, but they didn’t calm down either. He might have swallowed the twine from his room rather than tossed it aside, because it certainly felt like something was tangled up in his gut.

“Yes.” He said, marvelling at his own voice. “I hope so anyways. I have to meet them at noon or they’ve promised to leave me behind.” How exactly that information had entered the rumour mill didn’t matter to him, this was Skyhold: Connor joining the Grey Wardens was no more sacred than Lady Montilyet’s teddy bear.

Dennet was quiet, regarding him again with his half-blind eyes. It resonated with the kind of look the Templars of Kinloch Hold had doled out regularly towards the Apprentices. Was he lying? Was he really any danger? Would he ever be something worth trusting?

“In that case,” Dennet said, pulling the words out slowly. “I owe you an apology, Ser Guerrin.”

“What? For what?”

“For being in this place two years and never giving so much as a nod or acknowledgement to my liege’s son. Mage or no, I should have owed you that much.” Connor shook his head, hands waving the words away like flies.

“There’s no need- absolutely none, sir. In the middle of a war between mages and templars-”

“To keep acting like one of those mages was at fault for old men’s schemes?” Dennet interrupted, his voice surly enough that had he been ten years younger it would have come with raised fists and a horsewhip. “No, it needs to be said. You were a boy at Redcliffe and under the influence of a blood mage. Yes, I lost a daughter to Loghain’s schemes, but then I lost my son to the Blight that same year: if I bear the Hero of Ferelden no ill will for his name constantly bringing those memories back to me then why should I act differently for you?”

“Those are different things,” Connor explained. “I was the demon’s vessel, it moved _through_ me-”

“Until the Hero of Ferelden followed it into the Fade and tore it to pieces,” Dennet cut in again, scowling. “I was there too, if you care to remember. And as a matter of fact I think I’ll take the word of the Circle mage and Grey Warden who ended the catastrophe over that of the boy who was incapacitated for most of it. You weren’t yourself, Connor. Andraste guide me it’s taken nearly twelve years for me to accept it, but it’s true. Are you calling the Hero of Ferelden a liar?”

Connor’s argument crumbled in his mouth. His words buckled and sunk like a paper boat dragged down a fast-flowing stream. Had Dennet _not_ thrown that last accusation out then maybe they would have kept at it for hours, but he let the argument die. Just thinking of how much time he’d wasted here already made Connor very keen to get away now. It wouldn’t do to miss his only chance to leave Skyhold because he was stuck talking to a tired old man.

“Thank you for your kindness, Master Dennet.” Although it was sorely misplaced. “May Andraste keep you and your family safe, but I must be going now. The Grey Wardens-”

“Won’t be going anywhere without their commander’s reins.” Dennet said, holding up the leather straps in his hands. It took a moment, then awkwardly clicked.

“You… took the Hero of Ferelden’s reins, sir?”

“He’s an understanding sort, very patient.” Connor marvelled just the same. “You’re wrong again, by the way.”

“I’m sorry?”

“About what you said when I arrived: she knows exactly who you are.” The Horsemaster continued, speaking as though they hadn’t just been talking of heavy, ugly things. “You used to sneak her pinches of sugar from your mother’s afternoon tea, if not the whole biscuit from her plate.”

What a baffling accusation. Connor’s head started humming, trying to remember doing anything of the sort as a boy. Sugar for who? Cookies for what? When it hit him he spun to the Foarder standing in the pen behind him.

“That little filly? Her?” He must have misunderstood something. “No, she was barely taller than I was. That was years ago!” Behind him, Dennet’s laugh was kind and wizen.

“Your father had her singled out for your thirteenth birthday.” The old Horsemaster explained. “He knew it was time for a young man to set aside his pony for a proper horse. It was a shame when things worked out the way they did instead.”

“She survived?”

“Obviously.” He grinned, “I’d sent her to pasture for the Spring when the Blight struck the south, and by the time she made it back to Redcliffe she was still too small for the Hero’s army and their march to Denerim. But since then she’s done well. She has a filly and a colt back in Redcliffe to serve your uncle, and her firstborn is King Alistair’s favourite hunting steed.”

“Your horses have always been Ferelden’s finest.”

“And her line the bluest of the blood.” Dennet preened. “Her sire carried your aunt Queen Rowan to her throne when he was young you know. Most of her best years are behind her now, sadly, but she’s still strong and sure-footed as anything. She can’t catch the wind, but only a river will run farther.”

There was a queer feeling in the air around them. Of course a master of horses would wax poetic about a strong breeding line, one decorated with royal favours. But there was something else in Dennet’s manners now. Less gruff, more resigned.

When Connor looked at the horse’s brown eyes he tried conjuring up the memories of one little filly out of all his father’s horses. Redcliffe’s mounted knights were famous due in no small part to their horses having been cross bred with lighter, faster Orlesian Chevalier mounts during the Occupation. Instead of the hulking, stone-footed beasts of Highever and Gwaren, Redcliffe’s Foarders traded some of that height for longer legs and faster frames. They had the stamina of their Ferelden cousins with the speed and muscle tone of their Orlesian parents.

And almost like a Mabari, they were wildly smart creatures too.

 _‘He calls me old_ ’, the mare in the pen seemed to say as he looked at her. ‘ _He should look in a mirror sometime.’_

“What’s her name?” Connor asked.

“Issan.” Dennet answered.

Connor stroked Issan’s snout again, brushing a hand back behind her ear and down her strong neck. The wiry texture of her hair was thick, hardly any scars or thin spots marring her brown colour. Her mane hadn’t been braided or trimmed, but was clearly brushed and well loved. Her flanks were trim from ready exercise, and for a mare who’d bred three times she didn’t look like a beast that was meant to be out of service yet. Her eyes were clear, and her teeth had been hard and ready for the carrots he’d fed her earlier. If King Alistair and his uncle Teagan both had members of the line in their own stables, then that meant her bloodline was secure and might even have been continued by now.

“Why is she saddled?” Connor looked back at Dennet, who was quiet now. The Horsemaser had wandered to a table and was readying a new set of reins for the Warden Commander. When Dennet chanced a look back at him and found Connor watching, the old man shrugged, finished fastening his clasps, and answered him with a brisk and serious voice.

“Because she’s yours.”


	9. Bit of a Brawl

No matter how hard Connor tried to anticipate the day’s events, absolutely nothing was coming along in a steady or mundane way. He’d wandered into Skyhold’s crypt last night a disregarded apprentice, and today he walked to the Keep’s front gate armed, armoured, packed, and even _mounted_ as a battlemage. The Maker himself must have been scratching his head at the state of the world.

Connor couldn’t even approach the Grey Wardens without something else unexpected happening. Blessedly, he wasn’t the only one left rattled, and it didn’t even have anything to do with him at all!

Master Dennet started swearing oaths once the scene unfolded, and behind Connor the Warhorse Issan whinnied in a way that echoed suspiciously of laughter. If he wasn’t hallucinating too badly, Connor was also quite certain that maybe that _was_ the Lady Inquisitor leaning off her balcony trying to see down into the courtyard. And who could blame her for that? It was a brawl.

Connor and Dennet saw the very start of it, though they heard nothing.

Warden Nathaniel, in the pleated blue and silverite of his warden tunic, leather and silverite protecting his bow arm and chest, was standing in the middle of things. He was all blades and a mighty longbow at a distance, but he stood chest-to-chest with a masked knight with a griffon etched on his pauldron. An Orlesian Warden. Words were shouted, offense _deeply_ taken, and in a shocking twist Connor had to quickly re-evaluate his understanding of Warden Howe’s character, because Nathaniel fired his fist straight into the other man’s throat.

The Orlesian fell like a stone, and Nathaniel was tacked to the ground by an elf in silverite armour. The elf then took a boot to the gut from Warden Hawke, and then an arrow sparked off the warrior’s breastplate from a Warden bow.

It all got a little too frightening and confusing after that. Connor was too stupefied to join the fray, almost jumping when he saw an arm lock around Zevran’s throat and two more Wardens advance on him. False alarm: Zevran kicked both legs up and knocked one of his attackers in the head, then the other lost her sword. The Warden holding him got a spray of something black in her eyes and the assassin was gone. When Connor saw Nathaniel again it was because a dwarf had gone flying and the archer was beating punches into another human’s face.

They were all Wardens. Every single person in the fight was wearing blue, or silver, or something else Warden-ly. Even Lieutenant Blackwall, who belonged more to the Inquisition than the order, had a dwarf’s face quashed down in the dirt. It didn’t seem like Blackwall was even on anyone’s side, he just started punching and doing a very good job of it.

The first bit of magic, sadly, was Connor’s. He saw a mage and recognized enough to say that she was not Commander Surana. Fire was crawling up her swinging staff and in a brawling crowd that seemed like a terribly reckless idea.

The only thought in his head was to stop her, and his staff channelled the mana so easily he almost overshot her position. The glyph snagged the mage’s feet and gripped her entire body.

And then a charge of magic that was _not_ Connor’s blasted from his glyph outwards, putting a stop to the madness.

It was just a rolling wave of blue energy, Connor’s glyph burning up before ballooning like dough under a rolling pin, cold flames and swirling wind catching punches and silencing voices.

“ _ENOUGH!”_ A voice bellowed, echoing in the wake of the blast. Every person touched by the magic was frozen in place, paralyzed. This even included one poor soul who’d been in the middle of tumbling backwards, and was now laying rigid in that same position on the ground.

“Is this the _best_ our order has to offer our hosts!?” Commander Surana’s voice filled the gap left by the brawling. His silverite armour gleamed in the sun, golden staff held with its crimson head swinging down low to the ground, fingers of blue lyrium trailing and dancing like smoke around it as he walked. Immediately behind him was Warden Oghren, arms full of parcels wrapped in butcher paper. The dwarf was chuckling audibly as he followed the Commander between the petrified Wardens. Connor was sure Oghren would have tweaked their noses if his hands were free.

The first affected Warden, the mage Connor had targeted, broke free. Mana flared and then fizzled from her staff as she dropped it, and she slowly sank to her knees, clutching her head. Another Warden fell free with a grunt, and then a few more. No one threw any punches as Surana moved to the centre of the former brawl, commanding attention from everyone as the spell lost its power.

“What started this!” He called.

“You did!” A woman’s voice answered. The Wardens shuffled until a human woman with a scuffed shield and a bloodied lip came forward. Her twisted black hair was spun in tight locks over the top of her head and down one side, the rest shaved close to her dark skin. She jabbed one gloved finger at the Commander accusingly. She was Orlesian by her strong accent when she cried: “You! And the First Warden!”

“Sir-” Hawke said, but Surana righted his staff and beat the end of it down onto the packed earth. Connor could only see the back of Hawke’s head, but the Warden took the gesture for silence and shut himself up.

 “Grey Warden,” He said, “If you have issue with me, then step forward and speak.”

The woman _absolutely_ did. The crowd shuffled and moved out of her way, a few murmuring low as she came forward. She didn’t leave her shield behind, but rather than walk towards him with it up between them, she held it straight at her side with her elbow tucked. She was not young, but not too old to have lost her fire.

“Do not order me!” She shouted, which Connor thought was stupid because she’d already done what he’d said by stepping forward. “How dare you presume to call yourself Warden Commander after what happened to Clarel!”

“My rank and Warden Commander Clarel’s fate are unrelated.” Surana answered her simply. “We knew each other through correspondence only. And I have not-” She interrupted him.

“Weisshaupt abandoned us to the Venatori!” She shouted, “We don’t care how many letters she sent, the First Warden has no right to put you in her place! A new magic puppet for them to make dance after she was destroyed by their silence!”

The venom in the Warden’s voice was rousing. Black looks surrounded Surana, hands falling to hilts and clubs. The Commander was not above insult either, and his wide elven eyes had narrowed as the Warden spoke to him like that. But he was listening, and clearly aware of how the situation around him was changing.

“Grey Warden, what is your name?” He asked, and she spat at the ground instead. “Did Clarel extend the joining to children? Grey Warden, give your rank or go back to making a mockery of the Orlesian Order!” She grit her teeth, eyes flaring on the edge of all-out mutiny, but finally.

“I am Genevieve Bouclier, Captain of the Grey!” She announced, then drew her sword and pointed it at the Commander, shield at the ready. “I give my rank because I am not a pretender like you!” Connor’s gut twisted with dislike. No wonder there had been a brawl, he had to bite his own tongue to keep from saying anything.

“They should have called you _Bélier_.” Surana snapped back. It wasn’t at full volume, but the snub was still meant to be heard. _Then_ he let his voice project: “Captain Bouclier and Grey Wardens of Orlais, I am Commander of the Grey Soren Surana, Arl of Amaranthine, Archmage of Kinloch Hold.”

Heads came up, ears open. Connor wanted to laugh but held it in. Behind Surana his Wardens had regrouped and were standing tall: Nathaniel at attention and Hawke standing surly beside him and flanking their commander like the scuffs of dirt at their knees and faces didn’t matter. Oghren had unwrapped the parcels and now Zevran was finished attaching a new bandolier of tanned leather across his chest, strapping a silverite guard across his forearm with his eyes smoothly wandering over the assembled crowd. Connor had never had a chance to notice it before but Oghren’s breastplate bore the enamelled body of a Grey Warden Griffon opposite the rearing bear of Amaranthine.

“That is a bold claim!” Captain Bouclier shouted, but there was a very satisfying catch in her voice and a wary scan of her eyes across the Wardens behind Surana. Yes, the Ferelden Wardens were outnumbered, but that didn’t matter. “No matter what agreements the Inquisition has made, the Wardens of Orlais belong to Orlais!”

“A _claim?”_ Surana challenged, his voice growing with something more frightening than volume. “We stand in the heart of an organization where Templar, Mage, Chantry, and Royal forces gather like water and you, Captain, presume to call me a liar?” He released his staff so the golden rod stood proud and straight all on its own without him. He stepped towards her, unarmed, and Bouclier’s sword arm bent to turn the point away from him. “And _then_ , even if such an agreement existed, which it does not, you would presume even further to spit in the Inquisition’s eyes and tell them _no_ if ordered to leave?”

“I-”

“ _Kneel_. _”_ Connor didn’t know how angry the Commander was, he could have been furious or just slightly annoyed: it was hard to tell. Senior Enchanters were rarely open and vocal when frustrated. It was just bad character to react openly to things when you had Templars watching you for signs of possession, and Connor knew well enough that Commander Surana took _great_ pride in his origins as a mage. “Not to me.”

Surana caught Bouclier with her knees half-bent and balance shaken by the order. The Commander raised an arm and pointed above them to the bridge leading from the courtyard to the keep and all eyes followed. Connor swallowed hard at the sudden pressure from above.

“Kneel to the Lady Inquisitor,” Surana ordered. “If you speak for the Orlesian Wardens in lieu of a Commander, and if on their behalf you will reject anyone claiming Weisshapt’s authority to replace Clarel, then kneel to the one who could have slaughtered each of you at Adamant Fortress. _Kneel_ , Captain, and ask forgiveness for your men for fighting like dogs in your guardian’s home! Kneel, for acting as if your place is here, hiding in the Frostback Mountains, and not guarding the Western Approach against the Blight!”

Bouclier wobbled, but executed a turn and knelt, sword laid on the ground, and bowed her head under the Inquisitor’s gaze.

“L-Lady Inquisitor, I-”

“I apologize, Lady Inquisitor!” Someone else shouted. It took a wild moment for an elf with braided blonde hair and the blood writing of the Dalish to distinguish himself and kneel with his silverite shield. “The Captain does not speak for me, I accept my own misconduct.”

“As do I, Inquisitor!” Another voice, an Orlesian knight in dark blue.

The cry went up several more times. Connor almost considered doing the same just because so many other people were in the middle of it, and he could feel the reactions run through the Wardens as the Inquisitor looked down on them. She met Surana’s eyes the longest, leaning her elbows on the bridge wall and watching their reactions to her. First Enchanter Vivienne was at her side and watching as well. Finally, a beautiful woman wearing a ruffled golden shirt stepped to the Inquisitor’s ear and murmured something. The Inquisitor smiled, nodded, and then stood straight with a hand raised for quiet below.

She looked to Surana.

“The Inquisition understands that times are difficult for the Grey Wardens,” She said. “Warden Commander, are your men still up to the task requested of you?”

Surana looked different, it took Connor a long moment to realize that while all attention had been on the Inquisitor, Warden Oghren had finished doling out the last of the supplies from that great package. At Surana’s hip now rested a shortsword encased in a black scabbard, the hilt a bright bronze with a black grip. Resting on his back and giving his body that new shape was a shield, though Connor couldn’t see anything but the edge of it.

The Commander nodded and brought a fist up to his chest.

“We would be gone already if not for this embarrassment, Lady Inquisitor.”

“You will not reconsider the Wardens here at Skyhold for the duty?”

“Ferelden Darkspawn require Ferelden Wardens.” He answered, his voice projecting as well as hers so that neither one sounded like they were yelling. “The Orlesian Order has no voice but has made it clear they want nothing to do with their own vows or duties to put down the increased attacks in Western Orlais spilling in from the Approach. Ferelden didn’t even know they were happening. When the Storm Coast is clear, Vigil’s Keep will send the promised aid.”

“The Inquisition will relay this news to Val Royeaux.” The Inquisitor said, nodding. “It is unfortunate that so few must do the work of so many.”

She said it right over the Orlesian’s heads, tossing the words like coins or bread over the starving. The shame broke over a dozen faces just from where Connor could see them. They’d thought the Warden Commander here to drag them into Weisshapt’s service, or that he’d bombast them into abandoning their country and increasing his own power.

All he’d done was ask the Inquisitor for reports of Darkspawn activity now that Orlais’ Wardens were cut off and no longer reporting. How deep did Weisshapt’s betrayal go that they’d feared the Inquisitor using them like a bartering chip?

Issan’s snout nudged Connor’s back and he shuffled awkwardly, looking back at the warhorse and then out ahead. He met Hawke’s gaze and immediately panicked, worrying how long the Warden may have been looking at him. Hawke beckoned with a quick nod of his head, and Connor set to the lonely, awkward task of picking a path through the gathered Wardens that was small enough not to disturb them in their sullen moment, but still wide enough for the horse to follow.

The first person Connor had to nudge past took one look at him, his staff, and his horse, and immediately barrelled out of the way taking several other Wardens a step back. The rest parted like a curtain.

“ _He recruited,_ ” Someone uttered in a soft voice as Connor passed. “ _That’s all he was after_.”

“ _We’re leagues from Adamant’s ruins,”_ Someone else lamented, _“They’ll be overrun with Darkspawn by now…_ ”

“Warden Commander!” Connor reached the edge of Surana’s party and saw the other horses saddled and ready, Master Dennet working diligently at one horse’s bridle. When the voice called out he pulled Issan’s reins up short and got a rough bluster from her for it. “If Western Orlais is facing Darkspawn from the Approach, I volunteer to fight them!”

Dennet finished with the reins, took the horse quickly past the Grey Wardens, and presented Surana with his mount.

“As do I!”

“Commander, we will-!”

“Enough!” Surana’s voice shut down the sudden excitement in the crowd. If he was commanding on his feet then he was almost threatening on horseback. Usually elves looked a bit stupid on a horse, too thin and small and swallowed up by the saddle, but when Connor looked up again the sight of him comfortably astride the tall animal just made him nervous.

“Wardens of Orlais, hear me!” He shouted, and he sounded less the politician and mage, more the commander of men. “You have no leadership! No home! And now walk the dangerous line between offending your hosts or abandoning your cause!”

He shut them up and stole their attention from the Inquisitor, but that was alright: the Lady herself was listening to Surana.

“Ten years ago, the Orlesian Order came to Ferelden’s aid after Ostagar destroyed our numbers.” He reminded them, and his words almost let Connor miss the fact that the others were mounting up. Zevran got his attention with a soft whistle and Connor quickly put one foot in Issan’s stirrup. “Our western brothers and sisters of the Grey hunted down every last Darkspawn on the surface, and took nothing but their honour back home with them. Now, today, I am here to tell you that the Ferelden Order has set out to repay that debt!”

The world looked a lot different from horseback. For starters horses were very, very tall, and in comparison humans and dwarves were very, very short. Connor felt very high off the ground, and having the tall Wardens he’d just scurried past now come no higher than his knees was jarring. Surana kept all of the attention however, allowing Connor to fidget and try to adjust his weight without any uncomfortable staring or laughter.

“Adamant Fortress is destroyed!” He shouted, horse stepping here and there to make room for itself in the crowd, but he kept his posture straight and the tension on the reins and stirrups was good. “The veil in tatters around it, leaking spirits and demons into this world. You cannot rebuild there! Corypheus’ manipulation and the perversion of our Order which led to the death of beloved Divine Justinia the Fifth has poisoned our reputation across Thedas- Orlais will forgive you in time, and even now Divine Victoria works tirelessly to heal their heats- but that time is not now!”

There was hopelessness in their faces, loss and anger. Captain Bouclier was standing again but her shoulders looked slumped, defeated. She had, of all things, just challenged the Hero of Ferelden as a fraud however, so Connor couldn’t bring himself to feel so badly for her.

“Whatever is to happen with Weisshapt cannot come from Skyhold.” Surana continued, “You have but two paths to walk. One leads you into exile: disband from Skyhold, travel fast and light in the dark, beat back the Blight from the shadows and expect back nothing but blood and the Calling as your reward. Let the conflict with Weisshapt go with you to your graves and sustain yourselves on the pride of never giving in to the leadership which failed your brothers and let your fortress crumble. The other-”

He heeled his horse. Not hard, but the white steed lurched forward and caused the Wardens to part and back away, forming a wide ring as he trotted the horse and made it press the Wardens back as far as the courtyard would allow. When he moved like that he was able to reach down and pluck his staff from the ground where it had stood all this time, and it hung from his fingers as he trotted past each of them, watching their faces.

Nathaniel said something to Oghren that Connor didn’t hear. What he noticed however was Zevran’s horse coming up beside his, and the elf gave him a look when the two wardens clicked to their mounts and sent their horses into the circle, trailing just behind Surana.

“The other!” Commander Surana said, using his speech to do many things at once: take back the respect nearly stolen from him, to show off the training in his men that had them form up without needing his direction, to put the fear of the Maker into every Warden who heard him. “Is the path back to your honour!”

Connor waited for Zevran to signal, but actually Zevran’s horse signalled Issan, so he was just completely not ready when she abruptly started moving. He kept his seat but not his posture, struggling when she went from a walk to a sudden trot. But he kept his seat, Maker watch over him, Connor kept his seat.

“Vigil’s Keep stands with her doors open and her fires lit! The Ferelden Order is small but we will defend Orlais until the tide pulls back, we will protect our brothers when they are wounded and fight for them to take back their identity! Honor the Inquisition, give them their year and a day of service: in Clarel’s honour! As payment for your own lives! And then make your way to Vigil’s Keep to stand ready and establish your future! The Grey will elect their Commander from among the Orlesian ranks, and that voice will speak for you when the matter of Weisshapt is brought before the Grey Wardens as a single body!”

Surana pulled out of the ring, reining his horse in tightly, but he wasn’t followed. Connor’s horse was on Nathaniel’s tail and he was just thankful he had someone to stay behind. When he thought to wonder where Warden Hawke was, the answer was a sudden low, deep bellow from a horn that made his shoulders seize up. Thank the Maker Issan knew her rider was an idiot, because her stride didn’t even falter when he looked over his shoulder at Hawke letting the horn back down to his side.

Skyhold’s gate started creeping open.

“You have your choice, Grey Wardens!” Surana said, no need to shout now, his voice was enough to fill the entire keep. “Inquisitor, the Grey Wardens of Ferelden leave Skyhold in peace.”

Connor looked, it was easy as they came around the ring behind Surana and wheeled in front of him. Nathaniel had moved from a trot to a canter already, and the gate was almost open.

“And in peace may all Grey Wardens will hold their vigil on the Amaranthine coast.” The Inquisitor offered no subtle emphasis on what she thought of things. “ _Dareth shiral_ , Commander: may Andraste guide and bring you back to us in friendship.”

Surana’s horse spun, his staff raised overhead as “ _In War!”_ rumbled through the air, and the mount broke into a quick run. It was galloping before it crossed paths with Nathaniel, and the Warden ahead of Connor immediately broke from the circle and spurred his horse into a sudden, world-tilting gallop.

“ _Victory!”_

Connor had no time to react before his own world launched forward and the wind came screaming past his ears. Issan was better prepared for this, she was a trained war-horse and she knew how to follow even when her rider didn’t: her head went down and her knees were high, she ran.

_“In peace!”_

Everything peeled to the right and over the sudden thunder of hoofbeats Connor saw Surana’s staff rise up again, the word _‘Vigilance!’_ trailing after them from the Wardens who were suddenly awake with energy behind them.

“ _In death!_ ” Surana’s voice floated back over Connor’s head.

“ _SACRIFICE!”_ Connor looked back.

The gate’s cold shadow swallowed and spat the party out, but he still had a moment to see what had happened. Hawke’s fist was raised high and he wore a mad grin as his horse galloped at Issan’s flank. Behind him again there were wardens with swords and fists up in the light, making their ‘ _choice’_ loud and clear for the open dome of the Frostback sky to hear them.

They were already too far away to see anyone well enough to make out a face or expression. Connor had to turn around and reaffirm a tight grip, arms and legs, on his horse as Issan’s mane flew in the wind and her hooves cracked the stone bridge under her. The frigid wind buffeted his face but his body was warm behind the protection of his robe, staff-head casting a shadow over Issan’s shoulder as the noon sun blazed.

He should have worn gloves.

 _“Whooo!_ ” Oghren suddenly shouted, silverite helmet catching the sun as the dwarf raised an arm and swung at the air. He was bouncing in the saddle but had no fear of falling, laughing in the wind as the party galloped on across Skyhold’s bridge.

They reached the guard tower across the gorge and the Inquisition soldiers there saluted quickly, the gate behind them wide open to let the party sweep down without losing speed. Connor looked back again as Issan swept down through the opening and followed the road’s slight curve. Anything that could handle a merchant’s caravan or a military march had room to spare for horses galloping two abreast, he wasn’t afraid of running off the side of the mountain.

He thought he saw Commander Rutherford at the guardhouse.

The remains of an ancient stone archway cut off his line of sight. When they passed it the checkpoint was gone and only Skyhold’s high wall and one of the keep’s great towers were visible through the cold glare. Connor put his focus back where it belonged.

He’d just joined the Grey Wardens

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bouclier's name is a not-very-clever-or-subtle play off her shield, because it is literally a straight translation of the word "shield". A bélier is a "(Battering) Ram", and I think it's a term Surana would know what-with how important Orlesian terms are to both Ferelden and most military offices in Thedas at the moment. Just being a little silly because, why not?


	10. Banter All The Way

From Skyhold the Grey Wardens took the Inquisitor’s Way due north. With the keep soon lost beyond the winding edge of the Frostbacks their party maintained a thunderous pace for nearly a quarter of an hour before Commander Surana changed his posture up ahead and their speed was allowed to come down.

You couldn’t take a horse from a high gallop to a lazy walk any better than you could take one that had been standing still and expect it to take the distance they’d already covered at a flat sprint. The Grey Warden’s cantering circle at Skyhold had warmed and prepared their mounts for the wild run, and now the jaunty, light-footed skip of their hooves let them calm down and ease their burning flanks without injuring them in the cold. Horse Master Dennet had probably sworn up a storm when they’d galloped out of sight, but at least on the other end of that run came the better care of a long, steady trot.

For himself, Connor was just happy that the slower pace was something he could actually adjust to and ride comfortably. It was still quick, but he was well aware of Issan’s white breaths calming from the near-heaves to long draws under him instead. She was an older horse, but this new pace was well to her liking.

“So what do we call you?”

“Wha-?”

Connor looked back and watched Hawke steer his horse closer, moving from the back of their short column until he was at Connor’s right. The Warden had his helmet looped onto the reins and bouncing at his armoured knee, sunlight flashing off its winged sides. On Connor’s left, Zevran gave a short yip and his horse spurred forward as well, pushing ahead to the front where it fell in-step next to the Commander.

“Guerrin? Connor?” Hawke asked, ignoring Zevran’s exit and carrying on comfortably from the right. “ _’Hey you in the dress’_?”

“It’s not a dress!” Connor, who must have still been eight years old, defended against the petty comment. Hawke rolled his lips together and gave him a look that clearly announced how close he was to making Connor the butt of several nasty jokes for the rest of his new life on the road. Connor closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and tried to salvage part of the moment.

“Connor is fine.” He answered. “It’s not exactly a common name, but in Ferelden at least it’s a bit less evocative than Guerrin.”

“So that’s your angle?” Hawke asked. “Separation from the family? Makes you a lot like Nathaniel then.”

“It does my family well not to be reminded of me.” Connor told him, feeling bitterness creep up in his voice.

“Is this the part where I make a joke at Redcliffe’s expense and you decide to resent me for the rest of forever?” The rest of-? Connor hadn’t heard it put quite that way before.

As they spoke, Hawke was riding comfortably. Actually, no: his posture was all wrong? He was leaning back trying to make himself _look_ comfortable, reins resting in his lap with a limp grasp around them. Connor may have been rolling awkwardly here and there with Issan’s back, but at least he was sitting sort of straight.

“I hope not.” He said, answering Hawke’s leading question.

“Then we can skip it, and you can ask away now.” Erm…

“Ask what?”

Hawke’s confident, swarmy grin slipped. But at least he fixed how he was sitting- good, at least one of them knew how to ride a horse.

“Oh come on!” He was making a big show of being upset. “You’ve read Varric’s books, haven’t you?” Varric- Tethras?

The kindly dwarf from Skyhold and one of the Inquisitor’s good friends. He was a fixture of the great hall and it’s brilliant, massive fireplaces. He was the one who made sure to learn the servant’s names and had never included Redcliffe castle in any of his retellings of the Tale of the Warden. A warm, tired soul with a rough voice somehow honeyed by the Maker for the right kind of song and story. He was also the author of the Tale of the Champion, Kirkwall’s Marian Hawke.

“Varric who?” Connor asked, innocent as the dawn, and he watched Hawke’s pride take the full blow.

“N-Nevermind.” Hawke, scorned, looked away and watched the road pass under quick hoofbeats.

Connor had thought it would be funny but now he couldn’t make himself fess up to the bad joke. He’d offended Hawke, upset him, and he’d only been trying to strike up a conversation and be nice on the long journey to wherever they were going. Connor didn’t even know what their destination even was, and now he had no way of asking Warden Hawke. The man would probably refuse to have anything to do with Connor now- he might as well just turn around and head back to Skyhold…

The horses’ pace was unaffected by their riders’ conversation. The afternoon sun was bright, the air crisp, and the horses almost glided as they clopped along the even cobbles through the mountains. To their right was the great gulf of a rocky valley between mountain peaks, wild trees and rocky scrubland meshing together with pockets of spring snow hidden in dark crevasses.

“That’s nugshit!”

“…what?” Connor was so caught up in the landscape that he almost ignored Warden Hawke again by accident.

“You!” He complained, “That’s impossible!”

“I’m sorry- I wasn’t listening? What are you talking about?”

They were still riding next to each other through the sunlight. Oghren’s laughter drifted back from just head of them, but Nathaniel’s comment was lost on the wind. Hawke’s voice probably overtook the two wardens anyways.

“Every illiterate from Orlais to Rivain’s at least had the Tale of the Champion _read_ to them!” Hawke blustered. “ _’Varric who?’_ Pah! I see right through your game!” Connor should have taken this comment very seriously, but instead he just didn’t.

“You won’t just assume I’m an illiterate who was locked away in a tower for eight years?”

“You think I would- but I’m smarter than that!” Hawke trumpeted, sitting up straight again. “Both my father and commander were circle mages at some point, and circles are where they used to _print_ the damned things! An illiterate mage? Bring me a dwarf who hates tight spaces first.”

“Like Varric Tethras?” Connor’s smart mouth made Hawke’s jaw go slack. “Oh. You meant _that_ Varric.”

“I knew it!”

“I forgot?”

“Like hell you did.”  Hawke’s confidence was restored, head high and sunlight flashing off the griffon on his breastplate and pauldrons. Only one of his shoulders was bared to the sun, a heavy fur-lined cloak wrapped around his body and spread across his thighs. The way the garment was worn however showed it was meant to be functional, it was pulled around him but left the hilt of his longsword in easy reach. The sheathed blade was attached to the saddle, hilt in easy reach, and its point extended all the way back beyond the horse’s flank behind him.

Connor could tell that this would be no short ride just because Hawke was willing to compromise how quickly he could draw his weapon for the sake of keeping warm. Connor’s staff was an asset across his back, but his robe was plenty warm enough for him in the sun not to worry about an extra cloak- maybe by nightfall he would get a chill, or if it started snowing or raining, but for now he was warm enough to have undone a few of the buttons at his collar for a bit of air against his skin. Ahead of them, the dwarf was also riding without his helmet, and Zevran’s long twin daggers were strapped to his horse’s left flank rather than his own cloaked back- but Connor was also quite sure the assassin had other, smaller weapons to use if he needed them.

The soldiers Connor had travelled with a week ago had been expected to just muscle through the cold with their armour padding and grit for two days though, warming themselves by an evening fire before getting back on their horses in cold chain mail the next morning. You could certainly do it like that for a short mission away from warm stone walls or a protected camp, but Ferelden was a cold place and on a proper journey you either kept warm on the road or prayed your route had many stops along the way. Being high up in the Frostbacks certainly didn’t make things any easier either.

But just thinking through all of that…

“Do you know where we’re going, Hawke?”

“Yup.” …That was it?

“Um, _where_ are we going?” He asked again.

“We’re heading north.” Hawke could be quite the asshole when he wanted.

“Right. Thank you. Never would have figured that one out on my own.” He said, and considered the unhappy matter settled. It didn’t matter all that much if Connor knew anything, he’d figure it out eventually. At least the weather and the road were pleasant.

And then, about ten minutes later:

“Erm…” Issan and Hawke’s horse were trotting in sync, keeping both riders within speaking distance as the road markers sped by.

“Yes?” Connor was surprised by his own confidence when he answered the Warden’s grunt.

“The storm coast.” Hawke said. “I don’t know the details yet. It’s probably darkspawn though.”

“Are there always darkspawn on the surface even without a Blight?”

“My former commander used to say so, yeah.” He mumbled his way through the memory. “The Blight pulled almost all of them into the Deep Roads under Ferelden though, so when I joined we only ever saw them if we went down underground.” Hawke put on a dark, grumbling look. “We spent a lot of time underground.”

“You were recruited in the Free Marches, weren’t you?”

“Yes. Three weeks from Kirkwall and Maker-knows how far from Ostwick which was where I woke up.” Connor nodded thoughtfully, and realized his minor slip about ten seconds before Hawke did.

“I knew you’d read the damn book!” Hawke cheered, his horse swaying and adjusting as its rider carried on. Issan swerved gently to give the other mount some space.

“Oh, you meant _that_ book.”

Connor heard a laugh and looked ahead, but whoever it was had already turned back around. It was a pleasant ride, so far.

They had set out from Skyhold just after high noon and made, as far as Connor could tell, good time. The road to Orzammar took about two and half days to travel on horseback. From Orzammar one could reach the coast in another half-day. The problem was that the Storm Coast stretched from the eastern flank of the Frostbacks all the way to Amaranthine on Ferelden’s north eastern corner, the meeting point of the Waking Sea and Amaranthine Ocean. Anywhere between Westhill and Amaranthine city could be their actual destination, and even with good roads and fair weather there was over a week between the two.

Connor thought on this because he had the time to. The morning had been wild, but now except for the occasional comment from Hawke there was little for him to do.

Ungrateful sod. Connor should never have let his thoughts wander to ‘ _hmm, I’m getting bored_ ’.

Although similar, the Inquisitor’s Way was not the Imperial Highway. The road had been cut into the mountain slope, expanding the ancient path that had once led to the keep in its former life. In contrast to the Imperial Highway’s elevated structure, the Way had rest points whenever the mountains swayed to give space for trees or water. Daylight was hard to estimate in the mountains, but when Commander Surana signaled with a raised fist for them to slow down and allow their horses to walk comfortably into one of those shaded waypoints, there were still several hours of good travel time left.

There was a lively little waterfall feeding a small brook about a hundred feet from the road’s cobbles. The grass had been trodden down by hooves and pine-needle, the air crisp and cool as Surana dismounted. There was shelter from the wind here, old wagon tracks and a cold stone fire-pit showing how frequently the waystation was used. The Wardens helped themselves to the sanctuary, dismounting carefully with a few grunts and sighs between them.

“We’re not done for the day.” Surana announced. “But give your legs a stretch and the horses a rest.”

The animals were glowing from their exercise, roan and white and chestnut hides sparkling with healthy sweat across their chests and flanks. They’d worked hard, and with the reins pulled over their heads and bridles removed, they were led to water where each one seemed happy to dip their heads down to the cool flow.

For Connor, once Issan was set to her rest he was happy to walk around a bit himself. He was sore but unwilling to admit it in front of seasoned adventurers, especially not when he saw how diligently they went about and occupied themselves. Oghren cast his cloak down on the sparse grass and kicked one heel down on the ground, leaning to stretch out one leg, then the other. Nathaniel was busy with his saddle bags, rifling around in them for something that was none of Connor’s business. Hawke he might have spoken to, but then the Warden decided to start jogging around two trees in a figure eight and it felt wrong to distract him. Zevran had flung himself on the ground and was dipping his hands into the cool water, which made sense when Connor realized he was holding a water skin and was taking advantage of the fresh stream while it was there in front of him.

With all of this productive activity around him, Connor felt distinctly out of place. There was no bandage pot to boil, no elfroot to cure and roll. They weren’t stopping long enough to need a fire and the ground turned sheer and barren only a few meters in any direction so there was nothing to forage for. At a loss, Connor just waffled about like an idiot.

Hopeless, he approached Surana. The Commander was just as busy as his Wardens but had taken up position at a wide stone block half-buried in the ground. A leather scroll case was open and he’d placed his gloves down next to it, two fingers on his left hand marked by the same rings Connor had admired that morning. Before he had to struggle for something dumb to say, Surana looked up at him.

“Ah, Connor.” He said brightly. “Did you need something?”

“Um- anything to do.” Connor’s dry mouth sort of formed the words for him. “To help with, I mean, sir.” To be useful.

“Smooth these out for me then, gently if you can.” Surana turned over several rolled sheets of vellum and paper. He’d gathered stones and bits of his own gear to hold the edges down and Connor helped with the idle task. His interest was piqued by the fact that most of these pages were maps. The Commander consulted one of these maps specifically while Connor completed the simple task, and then Surana called out for his men to gather.

“Well, gentlemen.” He said. “We didn’t have time to do things properly at Skyhold this morning, so let’s get down to it. None of you are fools but for propriety’s sake, this is Connor Guerrin.” Connor’s insides shrivelled up like old fruit. “Connor is a former Mage of the Ferelden Circle, now a recognized member of the College of Enchanters, and I think he will prove himself useful to us.”

Ah yes, useful. Useful at unrolling paper, yes, that was Connor.

“Connor is also the son of Eamon Guerrin, former Arl of Redcliffe and King Alistair’s chief advisor. His uncle is Arl Teagan of Redcliffe.”

He felt weak and ugly on the inside when Surana described him in those terms. Connor was waiting for the next part, the most important part. Any moment now the Hero of Ferelden would mention the demons, the blood magic, all the deaths and screaming that had come flowing through Connor like all the blood that had stained the castle halls. He would say it, and-

“Glad to have you with us.” Warden Nathaniel spoke up instead.

“Can’t hurt to have another mage around.” Hawke sounded thoughtful. “No offense, sir, but it just never feels right trying to yell at you.”

“With the amount of times you injure yourself in a week, Hawke, I’ll be glad to have the help.”

“Been a while since we had a decent recruit,” Warden Oghren made the chuckle sound like a threat. He was such a thick and stocky creature, even for a dwarf, and his red beard was braided into three thick cords down his front, long enough to obscure the griffon on his breastplate. “Name’s Oghren! Second in Command of this company and Constable when we’re anywhere fussy, but out here just Oghren’ll do.”

“I- I’m just Connor, sir. Thank you.”

“ _Great_ ,” Oghren grumbled, face suddenly darkening. “First recruit we get in years and he’s gotta be _deaf_.” Connor felt his skin start to burn up, but his tongue was knotted too tightly to figure out what to say instead. He was going to be worse than Zevran about being polite, then.

“Warden Lieutenant Nathaniel Howe, but you and I already discussed that.” Warden Howe spoke up next, his voice soft next to Oghren’s gruff complaints. “I’m the company’s hunter and lead tracker. No deserting just because you get cold feet, Guerrin, or it’ll be my arrows in your back.” What!?

“I- I didn’t join the Wardens just so I could run away!” Connor complained, and _loudly_ because- well, just because!

“No, but I think we’ll all be a little cautious about using your surname when we’re out in the Hinterlands.” Hawke spoke up from next to him. “Warden Lieutenant Carver Hawke of what was once Lothering. Y’see, out of the three of us humans at least I get a kick out of _my_ family’s name. Nothing quite like saying _‘Hello, I’m Hawke’_ to some poor merchant and watching his brains leak out trying to remember when Marian joined the Order.”

There was a small flutter of suppressed laughter, an old joke, and Connor was surprised when he found Hawke pulling his arm at the elbow until they were shaking hands.

“Good to have you aboard.” Hawke said, and Connor’s hand was immediately passed to Nathaniel, who nodded at him seriously, and then Oghren who tried to _crush_ his poor fingers, toothy grin shining from within his beard. He jumped when an arm suddenly slung itself around his shoulders, and heard Zevran laugh and start speaking.

“As we already covered before,” the Antivan purred, “I am Zevran Arainai, the Hero of Ferelden’s personal bodyguard and _loyal_ assassin. I’m no Warden, young Connor, but I don’t have to be.”

 _“_ Ah- _hem._ ” He hoped that was Surana’s voice-

Zevran let him go. Without so much as a rustle the elf was standing across the stone block at Surana’s side. The Commander was looking at Zevran and the assassin seemed quite alright with this, placing his elbows on the stone and looking very interested in the maps.

“How come he doesn’t get a knife pulled on him the way I did?” Hawke complained, and the subject did _not_ make Connor feel better.

“Because he’s less irritating than you are.” Zevran explained, and Connor looked quickly from the assassin to Surana. The Commander didn’t comment on the bickering. “And we’ve all heard the Tale of the Warden before- some of us even lived it.” That didn’t make sense to Connor- did he mean he wouldn’t threaten Connor because of his magic? Because of something else?

“Alright, settle down.” Surana finally interrupted. “And don’t anyone start singing either, it’s not flattering.” Um… if he was talking about the Tale, then what could be _more_ flattering than a ballad of his own adventures? “Darkspawn, men! Those ugly, angry things that come crawling out of the ground? Have we forgotten? No? Good. Gather ‘round and look.”

Surana arranged the maps in front of them, checking a few before pulling a simplified map of the Frostbacks out. It was little more than a waving line headed due north before reaching a star labelled “ _Orzammar_ ” about a quarter of the way up the page. Then the road forked, _“To Orlais”_ on one branch and “ _Westhill_ ” on the other. The landmarks were simplistic, no illuminations or drawings of monsters in the margins, the mountains themselves were barely mentioned. A blush of red had been rubbed into the paper north of Orzammar and east of Westhill itself. Well into Ferelden territory.

“This is our destination.” Surana explained, and then changed the map. This one was _highly_ detailed, a fresh copy of what looked like a battlefield map. Elevations, small rivers, stone roads, the entrances to caves and old mine shafts. “Nearly a year ago there was an alarming increase in Darkspawn activity along this ten-mile stretch of the Storm Coast. There are old dwarven ruins scattered throughout the hills and at least five of them lead down into the Deep Roads. Keeping in mind that the Inquisition was cleaning up in the wake of our order’s complete disarray, I’m inclined to think well of them for trying, but something about hearing the Inquisitor recount _how_ they sealed the Deep Roads left me too cold for comfort.”

“Oh tell them, please, please tell them.” Zevran piped up. “My friend I am begging you, I must hear the words leave your mouth and watch it dawn on them.” Nathaniel was frowning at this exchange and Hawke shifted his weight around, arms folded over his breast plate. Oghren just huffed.

Commander Surana just looked uncomfortable. His mouth was pinched shut, eyes narrow at his friend. The knowledge made him look tired and exasperated. He made a low, grinding noise in his throat, and then did as Zevran desired.

“What did the Inquisitor do?” Nathaniel asked.

“She put a rock over the hole.” Connor watched Nathaniel’s eyes go wide and he leaned forward a little like he’d been gently punched with a hammer. “She said it was a big one, but that was it. Just a big rock. Oh, and she let me know that a carta hide-out in the hinterlands spewing darkspawn was stopped with a wooden crate.”

“Maker’s _breath…_ ” Hawke swore. Oghren was not as upset, but his grumbling voice was far more colourful.

“Between one opening _somewhere_ in the Hinterlands,” Surana continued, looking tiredly down at the maps. “And the five that are proving problematic again in the Storm Coast, I think our efforts are better felt in the north.” He touched the map in five places, highlighting the red X marks that had been placed down.

“ _Have_ they been active?” Nathaniel put the question forth. He had his weight resting on one palm on the stone, his other hand covering his eyes.

“Quite badly, but the area is remote and only a local Andrastian cult has been effected so far. What I’m worried about is the safety of Westhill and the traffic between them and Highever.” Surana explained. “We knew about this before we set out into the Deep Roads, that was why I told you we would probably not come out until we were somewhere in the Frostback mountains.”

“So we could be closer to Skyhold, rest there, and continue north with the Inquisition’s maps.” Oghren filled in. “Ancestors Below, you’ve gotta stop multi-tasking like this, Commander.”

“What I need is more Wardens, Oghren.” There was a hard, heavy weight in Surana’s voice when he spoke. Oghren took a breath to say something but then held back, letting the air out in a slow, heavy rumble.

“Alright, so we’re on track then.” Hawke spoke up, leaning forward and shifting the maps around until the simple one was in front of them. “We killed the Emissary we were after, resupplied at Skyhold, got our maps copied from the Inquisitor’s records, and have a new recruit with us. It’s a lot better than where we were a week ago.”

“I agree.” Zevran said.

“Where were you a week ago?” Connor asked, which was stupid because this discussion wasn’t about him.

“A month underground,” Nathaniel complained, “Hungry, ragged, and chasing a Darkspawn far too smart for anyone’s peace. Add on to that the fact that your speech this morning has probably sent anywhere from ten to fifty Grey Wardens to Vigil’s Keep, Commander, and things really are on the upswing.”

“As long as they don’t start any brawls along the way, then I’ll agree.” Surana said, shaking off whatever unspoken thing was bothering him. “Things are getting done, we’re doing better.”

“Ah-” Nathaniel made a very strange noise. Surana looked up from his maps. “Uhm, yes. About that, Commander.” Surana stood up properly, curious. They were all a bit curious actually, especially when Nathaniel squirmed a little and gave his shoulders and neck an awkward stretch. “About that fight this morning.”

“I don’t expect any of you to just lay down when attacked, Lieutenant.” Surana explained, turning an amused smile. “The Orlesians picked their battle and they chose poorly.”

“Aahh…” The Grey Warden squirmed _really_ _hard_ and Surana’s smile slipped off. “Yes well, that’s one way of putting it.”

“What other way is there?” He asked.

“Well…”

Zevran was standing between Howe and Surana as they spoke, he looked at one and then the other, then back again, and finally committed himself to getting out of the way. He was on Surana’s other side a moment later, and the Commander turned a quick, accusing look at the other elf before staring back at his hunter. Connor felt a tug at his elbow, and was willing to let Hawke ease him back a few steps.

“Cowards!” Nathaniel barked at them, but then looked back at his Commander with a sigh and spat it out. “We were meant to conduct ourselves respectfully, Commander, and I understand that. But there’s only so much disrespect a man can take before he has to do something about it.”

Surana closed his eyes. His voice was quiet.

“Don’t tell me you started that fight.”

“I threw the first punch, sir, but he _had it coming_.”

Surana winced, biting his lip for a moment as he folded his arms in front of him, one hand up and fingers curled, thinking.

“So when I broke it up and proceeded to lecture the survivors of the Orlesian Order on proper conduct and behaviour at Skyhold, I was actually just lecturing my own Warden?” Surana asked, and Nathaniel made a small, affirmative noise.

“I’m not proud of it, sir.” Nathaniel admitted. “I didn’t mean to embarrass the Vigil.”

“Oh, you didn’t.” Surana told him, voice still quiet, eyes still shut. “You’re not the one who put the Inquisitor on the spot in front of the entire keep, or who gave a condescending speech on good manners to a courtyard full of hardened warriors responding to my own soldier’s bad behaviour. I just expected my men to follow my orders, and so I overreacted. Hmm.”

“I’m sorry, sir. I mean it, and I’ll do whatever it takes to-”

Surana opened his eyes. He was looking over Nathaniel’s head, but at least he was aware of the world again.

“You’ll do exactly what I say this time, which is what you should have done in the first place.”

“Yes, Commander.” Connor marvelled at the fact that rather than collapse in a quivering pile on the ground, Nathaniel was standing perfectly straight now, shoulders back, at attention.

“You’re running with Connor until we reach the Storm Coast.” He ordered. “Full gear for both of you. When he can’t carry the load anymore, you carry both.”

“Yes, Commander.” Nathaniel repeated.

“Everyone is dismissed.” The Warden Commander said. “Connor and Nathaniel will start as soon as they’re geared, the rest of you ready the horses.”

“Yes, Commander!” Everyone’s voice went up that time and Connor was the idiot who didn’t realize ‘ _everyone dismissed_ ’ was an order to him as well. He said nothing, and just watched stupidly as Surana swept away from the stone towards the water. Zevran followed at his heels, and Oghren began collecting the maps. Connor’s head was spinning, he’d definitely heard his name at the wrong part of that order.

Nathaniel broke from attention and grunted.

“That doesn’t even feel like a punishment.” He grumbled.

“Stroud would throw a man in the stocks for brawling.” Hawke commented. “Be grateful.”

“Orlesian bastard had it coming, I’d run all the way to Denerim for the chance to do it again.”

“Um-” Connor finally croaked. “Excuse me- but… what did the Commander mean by- _‘running’_?” And by starting as soon as they were ready? And- and what about _full gear?_

Nathaniel looked at Hawke. And Hawke looked at Nathaniel. And neither one looked at Connor.

They _grinned._


	11. Sing Along

Howe liked to sing.

He wasn’t very good at it.

And he only knew three songs.

But Nathaniel Howe liked to sing.

Connor had a horse you know, a very fine, well-bred, strong and experienced horse. A little old yes, but good and hardy. But when the Grey Wardens broke from their temporary camp that fine Frostback afternoon, they took Connor’s horse with them. And they rode off! Not too fast, mind you, but plenty faster than Connor or Nathaniel, on foot, could follow. They were out of sight within minutes with nary a look back.

Nathaniel walked, but he walked quickly, and he fully expected Connor to keep up with him. Walking really wasn’t the right name for it, more like _‘pre-running’_ or, ‘ _not bending your knees running_ ’, or ‘ _leave the mage behind to die_ _running_ ’.

“They’ll stop an hour before sunset, that gives us an hour to catch up with them before we’re running in the dark.” Maker’s _breath_ and that sounded safe to him! “By the way, did you hear that lovely little melody at Skyhold? Loved it. How did it go again?” And then he started singing.

“ _Ancient as the tide, as far and bitter lines_ ” Those weren’t even the words!

But once he started singing, Nathaniel started _running_.

Which meant Connor obviously started running to keep up with him.

This, at least, was not a flat sprint. It was faster than the previous pace and required Connor pump his arms while wearing his pack, two full water skins, plus his staff, robe, and dagger. His knees bent now, and he had to drop his weight on one foot while swinging the other leg ahead. This made for a very clunky, uncomfortable, not to mention very short stride. Connor thought himself a fit young man, well equipped for running errands and fetching heavy things, capable of walking for hours, of thinking on his feet, of casting his spells with diligence and control, and of hitting things good and hard when pressed to the duty. But this? This he was not prepared for.

This was murder.  

“ _Enchanter come to me, Enchanter come to me, Enchanter come to see~”_ Murder to music, or whatever the noises coming from Nathaniel ten yards ahead of him were meant to be. Connor swung his legs, pumped his arms, hunched his shoulders and dropped his head to the task of making himself move much slower than he had on horseback, but much faster than he was probably meant to.

His lungs were heavy mere minutes later, his thighs felt weak and he stumbled back to a walk with Nathaniel still chugging along happily ahead of him. To his great surprise, the Warden dropped from his own jog to a walk, a much slower walk than before, and Connor tried to remember the harder walking pace from before.

He got within a few feet of Nathaniel’s still-singing voice when the Warden sped up again. Desperate, Connor went after him, and a few seconds later they were jogging again.

“ _Why?_ ” He croaked, embarrassed by how they couldn’t have even gone a mile, probably not even half.

“Because if you’re to be a Grey Warden, you’ve got to be able to keep up!” Nathaniel broke his song to answer, and then went right back to his off-key warbling. “ _Can you, can you, can’t you see? As once you were blind, in the light now you can see…”_

“Uuuh…”

“The Joining will help, Connor, but you can’t rely on it for everything.” He kept running when Connor stumbled and hit a walk again, breaths wheezing from his tight chest. There was a knot behind each of his knees. “And don’t worry too much about it, you won’t be running _all the way_ to the Storm Coast, just part of it. The Commander will probably have you run in the mornings when you’re fresh, then ride through the afternoon. Couldn’t do it like that today what with leaving Skyhold, would have looked a bit sad, wouldn’t it?” To have them all go galloping out of the keep with Connor scraping away behind them on foot? Yes. Very sad.

They alternated between running and walking and it was horrible. There came a point maybe a mile and a half in when Connor thought it suddenly got easier, like he could go a bit longer at the running part of things and Nathaniel apparently trusted his judgement because the Warden didn’t pull them up short at any point. For several heavy steps Connor just kept going. It almost felt okay. He might have been able to do this!

Then his body decided that this kind of exercise was horrible and it wouldn’t do it anymore.

He coughed, stumbled, and the weight of the gear he was carrying made him fall to the ground.

“Woah-”

“I- I meant- to – _that_...” Connor hacked several times, gasping as his throbbing heart helped push his weight up on one elbow. His legs were shaking, and he lay there embarrassed and dusty from the drop to the cobbles. Nathaniel came back and took him by the arm, helping him up.

“They didn’t let you out of Skyhold very often, did they?” The Warden asked him, and the Mage’s mouth was too heavy with spittle and dust to answer. He was making this horrific wheezing noise in the top of his lungs and shook his head. “Alright, at a walk then, let’s go.”

There was no stopping. If they stopped they’d fall further behind the party, and the horses would keep going until, Nathaniel guessed, an hour before sunset. If they didn’t reach the camp before then they’d still have to keep going, because the party had a certain expectation that all of its members be present before settling down for sleep.

“Sing it with me now! _Enchanter come to me, Enchanter come to me-!_ ” And all the long, maker-damned way, Nathaniel Howe kept on _singing_.

Connor was positively drenched with sweat by the time the first hour had hobbled by. It was uncomfortable but obvious: his shirt was sticky and cold under his robe, sweat beading down his forehead and dripping at his jaw. He might have been crying too, but couldn’t tell because his breaths were hoarse whistles. Finally his calves stopped hurting because he stopped being able to feel them. He wasn’t running, he was limping, sort of awkwardly swinging his arms and then hopping around on his numb heels, then staggering again.

Nathaniel moved like a sodding _deer_ and Connor wondered how much trouble he would get in if he used the last of his strength to catch up, smack the Warden’s head with his staff, and then expire on the roadside. Thankfully his hands had no dexterity left, they were weak little meat-flails attached to his wrists and he was even sweating _there_ too. He watched Nathaniel run, smooth and even strides, lungs doing their part to keep him moving in contrast to the way Connor’s were in open revolt at the exercise. And he kept fucking _singing_ …

“ _In the strength we catch a lion and the blinding sea.”_ Singing all the _wrong words_ …

Connor was blind with exhaustion as the sun sank behind the fingers of the Frostback peaks. He was crying, quite openly, because his lungs had thrown themselves on their sword and then set themselves on fire, and he’d probably hacked them up about a mile back on the winding band of the Inquisitor’s Way. He wasn’t even happy when he heard voices and saw firelight twinkling a quarter mile away in the distance. He didn’t have any energy left for anything.

When he was allowed to stop, actually permitted to not do any more, the only thing Connor could do was strip off the weight of his bag, his water, his bedroll, his dagger, his staff, and his damned robe, and let his boneless legs collapse out from under him.

Someone emptied an entire water skin over his head. It might have felt good. He couldn’t tell because nothing felt good.

An Antivan accent told him to eat something, and there was a hot sensation pushed against his face and set at his hands. But there was no point in eating because Connor didn’t have any insides left to feed.

He slept. Maker Guide him, Connor slept like the dead.

“Up an at ‘em, Guerrin!” Nathaniel woke him at dawn with a rude shake and another dumping of water.

“ _Uugh-”_ He’d slept on his _staff…_

 _“_ Don’t give me that piss. Up you get.”

“ _No… noooo… maker no, wait-_ ”

Cold rabbit and root stew was shoved in his mouth from the night before. He was only sort of cognizant for the act of putting his gear back on, and his screaming back and legs and gut and shoulders and soul only cried out more when Nathaniel made him bend down and touch his toes, and then press each leg against a tree for several seconds, then swing his arms up over his head. He had to pull his ankles up behind him which was pointless to him until Connor suddenly did it _right_ and the pain in his thigh eased off. As soon as he put his weight back on that leg it came back, but it was still seven seconds of heaven.

“And how about this time you remember to actually drink some of that water you’re carrying?”

“I… I’m allowed to do that?” He’d thought he just had to carry the weight.

Nathaniel laughed a mean laugh and then started walking down the road in the pre-dawn gloom. The others were awake by the time Connor started walking, but they had horses, they didn’t have to leave at the ass-crack of day.

You’d think his second day running would go better than the first.

“ _Enchanter come to me, Enchanter come to me, Enchanter-_ ” You’d be out of your sodding mind.

“ _Anything else!_ ” He shouted once the sun was up and looking down at his lagging pace with cold judgement. “Maker please, anything else!”

“Hmm, what’s a good one…” Nathaniel just kicked each foot back and flew a hundred yards at a time, it was sickening. Not as much as the sticky film that kept building up inside Connor’s mouth from the labour of breathing, but still disgusting on a spiritual level. “How about this one? _Sera was never an agreeable girl- her tongue tells tales of scallions. But she was so-_ ”

Connor groaned skyward. He still kept getting the words wrong- but at least it was a different melody now.

They couldn’t have been on the road for more than an hour before they heard the thunder behind them. Connor was scared it was a storm until he remembered that you couldn’t have thunder on a clear day in the mountains, but then he was suddenly overtaken by four yipping, excited Grey wardens on horseback and the fright of being nearly trampled made his weak legs shoot out from under him.

“See you at the Storm Coast, Howe!”

“Careful you don’t get lost on the way, Hawke!”

Well, at least Nathaniel was enjoying this experience.

The Warden was patient though, Connor had to assume as much about him because he could have _very easily_ spent the entire morning directly behind Connor with a switch and gotten an ounce more speed out of him. As it was, Nathaniel just sang his songs and trotted ahead far enough that Connor would feel like just giving up, but then start walking or running in place until Connor caught up with him. He didn’t sing when walking either, which was a relief, but tried talking to him instead, which didn’t work.

“So, the Ferelden Circle, eh?”

“ _Uuuugh-_ ”

“Did they have wild apprentice stories about the Hero of Ferelden once being one of them?”

“ _Mmuunh…_ ”

“You’ll find sympathy for those lost in the War with us. The Wardens lost many brothers and sisters.”

“Heee… _heeeeee_ …. aaaaaaah…”

“Alright, pick up those feet! I want to get over this hill sooner rather than later.”

“ _Aaaaaaahh…”_

They mounted the hill under the cold midday sun, a bend between two peaks that wound down the other side and swung through the wide pass. Connor was sure he was having a hallucination when they he saw a group of horses and riders at the base of the pass, but Howe just shouted “ _Don’t lose your footing!_ ” and sprinted down the road ahead of him.

Sod it all, Connor ran too.

Nearly broke his neck and both ankles.

Should have broken his pride too.

Running downhill with fifty pounds of gear strapped to his back.

But he only fell when he tried to stop, and he didn’t try to stop until he was at flat ground, and then he fell and did his best impersonation of a dead animal. Not a dying one, a dead one. He just hit the ground flat and stopped moving, because he was dead, expired. This was the end of the story of Apprentice Guerrin, because Connor was lying face down on the cobbles of the Inquisitor’s Way two days and thirty miles from Skyhold and he was dead.

“Up you get, Guerrin.” No. He was dead. Not moving. “We can all see you breathing, c’mon. No quitting now.”

“Two more minutes, I beg you.”

Hawke dragged him up by the scruff, and Connor seriously considered being difficult and going limp. However that was just too petty for him and if he fell again he might cry, and he didn’t want to cry, because he wasn’t six years old anymore. So Hawke pulled him up, and Connor put his wobbly legs under his aching body, and he was standing again. Sort of.

Issan had grown approximately five feet taller since yesterday. This was alarming.

“Just tie me to her and drag me north…” But he did, somehow, find the strength to put his foot in one mile-high stirrup and heave his unwilling mortal flesh sack into the saddle.

He didn’t ride very well, but he didn’t have to run anymore. Did you know that the only thing worse for an aching body than more running is riding a horse? The world was full of wonderful little learning experiences, and this was Connor’s newest one. It felt like the Maker Himself had kicked Connor right up the ass and all he could do was lean miserably over in Issan’s saddle and try not to fall off.

They rode until an hour before sundown and then pitched camp in another wayside point along the road. Nathaniel brought back something to camp that had meat on it, Connor had regained enough of his humanity after drinking a skin and a half of water that he could actually eat the roasted meat and bread when his portion was ready. The only thing he wanted after chewing through his meal was to roll out his bed and sleep until Nathaniel kicked him again.

“Connor.” That was not what happened. “Go get your staff.”

Commander Surana was standing across the fire from him. Connor still had rabbit juice on his face and was sitting on his saddlebag. The Commander had his staff in one hand and was looking at Connor expectantly.

Sore and exhausted and suddenly scared, Connor wiped his face with his hand and grabbed his staff from the ground next to him. Surana nodded and walked away from the fire.

“Sir?”

Surana held up one hand and made a fist, releasing it a moment later with a small orb of glittering green fire for his trouble. He shoo’d the little light away with his staff and made another one, sending it in the opposite direction. This lit up about ten feet of stony mountain scrubland around them, the red light of the fire a little ways behind them. The Commander then turned to face him, an inviting look on his face- eyes clear and open, shoulders thrown back and relaxed.

He took a step back, dropped his staff into a spin over his left hand, then caught the end of it behind his shoulder and lowered himself with knees bent. He only had a little bit of a smile on his lips, but it matched the little bit of emotional strength Connor had left.

“Square up.” The Commander said.

“W…what?”

“We’re riding to put down a Darkspawn infestation, Connor. I expect you to be ready for that. Square up.” Oh Maker. Oh Andraste. Oh mother- “I’m not going to turn you into a toad, Recruit, I’ll explain exactly what I want you to do once you _square up_.”

Connor wanted to babble a good half-dozen reasons why this was a bad idea and a wrong idea and a _please not me_ idea, but was wise enough to know not to fight this battle. He swallowed the knot of dry-spit and terror in his throat, and pulled his staff around in front of him. Left hand grasping near the head, right hand back so he could control where the body of the staff went when casting. He kept his feet spread one in front and one behind, leaned forward, and, um-

Surana looked him over, then stood up straight and walked over.

“Stay like that.” He said, interrupting Connor when he tried to straighten up again too. “This, up. Open your shoulders more.”

He didn’t touch Connor, he used his staff. He let one end of the gold staff push at his chest to straighten him up. When he wobbled, one of the serpent’s heads tapped at his ankle until he stepped back, adjusting his stance. Surana tapped the head of Connor’s staff up higher as well, modeling the grip himself and getting him to hold the staff further down.

“Grabbing the staff by the neck is the best way to burn yourself. And you’re not aiming for the ankles when you fight, so hold it higher. There. Much better.” The Commander then went back to where he’d been standing before, and slipped back into his own stance like most men put on a warm coat.

“Don’t worry about your magic. Tonight I want to see how you handle your staff.”

“What… what do you want me to do with it, sir?”

“Hit me.”

“What!?”

Surana frowned, and then in two _fast_ strides he was directly in front of Connor and startled him badly enough to make him stumble back.

“Darkspawn are faster than I am. Hit me, Connor.”

“But sir-”

Surana rushed him again. He wasn’t tall, he was wearing armour yes but he wasn’t a big scary ugly hulking beast- he was a short fair-looking elf and he was _the most terrifying force in Thedas_.

Connor froze and then jabbed straight with his staff’s head.

Surana’s golden staff head blurred and cracked hard at Connor’s strike, deflecting it. The weapon wheeled through the air and Surana came to a full stop with one foot between both of Connor’s. His staff’s head was locked behind Connor’s, keeping it down, and he had one fist ready to plow the blunt edge of his staff’s end right into Connor’s face.

“Good.” He sounded happy. “Now try again.” The elf unlocked their staves and took a step back, knees bent, rod down.

“I haven’t done this in years,” Connor felt breathless, wobbling as he set his feet the way Surana had shown him, trying to remember where his hands went on the staff.

“You did it last week on this same road.” Oh- right… “Come on, we don’t have all night.”

He had no idea how much trouble he’d be in if he actually bludgeoned the Hero of Ferelden with his staff, so Connor just convinced himself it couldn’t be done. Much better for his nerves.

He moved forward and swung the staff in a wide arc, aiming for a face he wouldn’t hit- and he didn’t! Surana just leaned back out of the way, and with one arm lifted his staff’s head up. The red gem between the serpents’ mouths glowed and set itself against Connor’s shoulder while he was trying to, um, turn around and- uh, get his staff back around to him. Surana just walked smoothly in a circle around him, keeping the stone where it was. It was _very_ warm through his robe and felt like a warning.

“Good effort. But we’re mages, not scrappers. The staff has two ends so try to use both before you commit to leaving yourself wide open.”

“I don’t think I can do this.”

“You’re over thinking it. Here, line up next to me.”

They stood beside each other facing the same way, and Surana walked him through it.

“Rod level, hold it where I showed you. Yes. Staff arm back, opposite leg forward. You’re going to step staff-side first,” he went slowly through it as he spoke. Surana’s staff-side was his right hand and arm, so he brought that leg forward in a lunge that made Connor’s saddle-sore body scream as he copied it. “Staff head up- look at my hands. I want to strike with where the staff blade should be on the back end. Get the head out of the way and follow through by extending your arm. That’s the first hit and you’re going to do this _fast_ , remember. The head is now behind you over your shoulder. Feet together. Spin on the ball of your foot. No, those are your toes. Yes, like that. Staff over your head, drive the- wait…”

Surana straightened up and left Connor stranded with his staff over his head and his legs twisted around each other like the Commander’s staff. He was waved to drop the position and Surana took a few steps away from him, still within sight though.

“I haven’t had to do it slowly in years.” He explained. “Watch.”

He lashed out with the back end of his staff, spun, led with his left arm and rammed the staff head straight in front of him. If he’d had a training dummy in front of him Connor was sure both strikes would have hit the same spot. The spin gave the second hit more power because that end of the staff was heavier. Ending the way he did put him back in the starting position. It was all very complicated, but when he did it, it seemed basic. Wait- it _was_ basic.

“That- no! I do know that.” It felt like the sky opened up. “You just strung them all together in one move.”

“It’s been a long time since I left the Circle, Connor.”

“So it’s this,” Connor pulled into his stance and did the first step- swinging the staff-head back and the blunt end out. He remembered this from lessons: it was a follow up after letting a spell go from the stone at the top. But the technical move ended just with the hit, then you were supposed to fall back and clock whatever was in front of you with the heavy staff end again. “And this.”

From his starting position, Connor pulled both arms back like he was holding a battering ram instead of a magic rod and swung the head forward. It was the executing swing for several apprentice bolt spells.

“But you added a spin to it to get from one to the other.” The spin gave the staff momentum, but it had to go _fast_.

“Darkspawn aren’t patient when they’ve got a mage in front of them.” Surana almost sounded like he was _defending_ himself, but that was stupid. He was the Hero here, Connor’d just read the textbook. “Are you ready to try?”

“So it’s just…”

He did try. He gave himself that much credit. He did try.

He did also trip himself and hit the dirt. But there was trying involved.

So he tried again and failed again. And then he tried again and failed again. And then he tried again and-

“Augh, this is…”

“Again.”

“The others are asleep-”

“You can sleep when you get it right. _Again_.”

He got it right exactly once and fell over his saddlebags in exhaustion. He woke up when Nathaniel kicked him.

He ran until they reached the gates of Orzammar, eyes full of tears and ribs metaphorically broken from the stress of collapsing twice on sore legs. He could barely see the crossroads. There was a big stone dwarf standing over them, the road forked in four directions with several markers, and they’d technically left the cobbles of the Inquisitor’s Way. Nathaniel wouldn’t stop _singing_ until Connor collapsed in Issan’s shadow, defeated.

Zevran and Hawke were sent to the tents run by the merchant dwarves near the city gates. Connor only overheard this by chance before Surana picked up his staff and dropped it in Connor’s lap.

“Up.”

“ _Oh Maker…_ ”

Jab, spin, swing. Jab, spin, swing. Jab, swing, spin.

“If you can’t hit me then you can’t eat.” _Uuuuugh-_

Zevran’s laughter broke his feeble concentration, and Connor’s legs came out from under him in a sad, hungry heap. He knelt there, hands on the ground for several seconds, and just _groaned_.

He was on horseback for the rest of the day, but he didn’t eat. There were rations in his saddlebags but Hawke teased him about them and told him the Commander’s Orders were Orders and he’d best not touch them or he’d get it for disobedience. He drank water instead, and when they made camp he stared at the flint and knife from Nathaniel for several dumb minutes before remembering he was sodding mage. He held his hand over the dry branches and his frustration turned the bulk of the kindling to ash.

Nathaniel teased him that the wild birds he’d shot for dinner looked good and fat for the pot. Connor curled up in his blanket for as long as his hungry self could have before Surana was on him to get up and train again.

“Hit me, Guerrin.”

“I’m _trying- **sir** -!”_

For whatever stupid and senseless reason Surana had upped the ante by actually hitting back this time. If he didn’t perform the move he’d been shown, he got a goose-egg on his head, or a swing at his calves, or was just outright tripped onto his face. There was no magic involved and Connor came close to shoving needles and stones in his mouth to keep from barking back that he was a _mage_ not a _foot soldier_ , so he didn’t need to know any of this staff technique!

He went to sleep with his insides gnawing at him, too angry to lay down near the camp fire and actually warm his raw muscles.

Nathaniel kicked him at dawn. He led him through the stretches and offered him a lump of now-stale bread out of consideration for his obvious hunger. Connor considered setting the bread and Nathaniel Howe on _fire._

“ _Enhanter come to me,_ _Enchanter come to me_ , _Enchanter-_ ”

His blisters were getting blisters on his feet. He hadn’t noticed the welts on his palms until Issan’s reins hurt too much for him to hold at noon. The mountains were slowly wearing down into hills and rather than cutting straight north, they were moving east into Ferelden.

He got a full meal at midday, but an apple, a lump of cheese, and an earth-baked potato from the night before was hardly enough for him after the last three days. When they stopped for the night he watched Nathaniel head off into the slightly thicker bush and prayed he came back with an entire ram for them to boil down for soup.

His hands _screamed_ when he picked his staff up again. His arms were boiled greens that could barely hold themselves to his shoulders. He foreswore the extra padding of his robe in the hope that his muscles wouldn’t pull off his bones and run away in the dark if he just lessened their load a little. He regretted it the first time the coiled body of Surana’s staff raked across his ribs.

 _“Maker’s breath…_ ” He was down on one knee, staff in one shaking hand, the other wrapped around under his ribs. He could feel the bruises forming. It hadn’t even been a _hard_ hit, just a solid one.

“When you’re ready, recruit.”

Surana made him try to block the hits he dealt out. It was still supposed to be an exercise in hitting, but now he had to defend. It was maddening when Surana wouldn’t actually _do anything_ on his own, all his moves were a reaction to Connor’s. If Connor went left, Surana went right. If Connor swung from above, Surana countered from below. Jabs met swipes, swipes met jabs, his staff was covered in scratches and scuff marks already. It was strong enough for the abuse, but he still felt wretched looking at it…

The night ended with Connor’s staff _grazing_ the Commander’s tunic- and then he took the edge of that twisted golden staff right across the bridge of his nose. It snapped on contact and Connor was on his knees, dizzy with blood weeping down his face.

“Sooner or later it has to get easier, Connor.” The Commander was annoyed at him, obviously.

“Or you might just be _wrong_ about me.” He wasn’t cut out for this, he wasn’t going to survive like this… The blood was warm on his hand and face. It didn’t hurt _that_ much but it was one hurt on top of a dozen others. He’d pulled something in his left calf this morning, Nathaniel had commented on the limp. His right arm kept shaking from the weight of his staff. His chest was one big bruise. Now his nose was broken.

Surana took a knee in front of him, setting his staff down as he pulled his gloves off.

“Here, let me see-” Connor flinched away when the Commander reached for his face. This made them both pause, and when Connor looked back at him he felt sheepish and stupid.

“That- was childish of me.”

“A little bit, yes.” His empty stomach groaned in misery. He didn’t want to cry. He _was not_ going to cry. “But have it as you like. If you change your mind you know where I sleep.”

“Yes sir,” he sulked. “Thank you, sir.” Surana clapped him on one sore shoulder and Connor winced again- just less dramatically.

“You’re not doing as badly as you think, Connor.” He said. “Finish off what’s left of dinner. Withholding food makes some people work harder, but a warm meal will probably lift your spirits. It gets easier, just be thankful I’m not Duncan.” The name took a moment to register.

“The Former… Warden Commander?” He asked, not sure why he felt the sudden interest. Surana nodded at the question though. “Why? What did Duncan do?”

“He dragged me from Kinloch Hold to Ostagar in less than a week.” But that- that was almost three hundred- “And threw me off his shield every time he caught me standing still for too long in camp.” Was that so? Well Surana liked to hit Connor with a massive stick for the exact same reason, so he kept his mouth shut and didn’t say anything about that. “Get some rest, Connor, it’s another long…”

The Commander trailed off, eyes going over Connor’s head in the night. The last thing he saw for certain was Surana quickly clench one hand before both his hovering flames extinguished themselves in the dark. The way the road bent at this point had been much like the first day’s resting spot- no real place to move about or do anything, so Surana had taken Connor back to the road for their training.

As soon as he couldn’t see Connor could suddenly hear much better. Surana’s voice was a whisper:

“Back to the fire, recruit. Wake Zevran, _quietly_. If you see any magic then raise hell to get the others up. _Go_.”

There were hoofbeats coming down the road. 

Connor took his orders and _went_.


	12. Day of What?

_“Back to the fire, recruit. Wake Zevran, quietly. If you see any magic then raise hell to get the others up. Go.”_

Wake Zevran and raise hell, wake Zevran and raise hell, raise Zevran and _wake hell_.

One rider coming down the road was not, in and of itself, usually a sign of danger. The problem was that the horse Connor and Warden Surana heard was coming towards them at _night_.  Not dusk, not a full moon, not a company of horses with lanterns and singing to announce themselves. It was one horse in the _pitch black_ of night. Travellers only took to the road alone if they were one of two things: avoiding followers, or doing the following. Travellers on important business would safeguard their person by travelling by day. Country folk almost as a rule would look better on a wanderer on their doorstep in the fading hours than the cold silence of a dark night.

Suddenly the nights of sleeping in ditches, of throwing himself off the road out of sight, of taking himself around the outskirts of a town rather than risk his tattered robes sending a snitch to find the Templars, all came back to him. Connor had only lived a few weeks from Kinloch Hold to Redcliffe as an apostate, but it had bred a unique kind of fear into him just the same. A lone traveller who saw mage fire in the distance and kept going? The Inquisition had put a stop to so much chaos, but not all of it.

Had the Hero of Ferelden had to face down wild Templars too? Had they been _that_ berserk with their purge?

The wood fire in the middle of their camp had burned down low. Surana always took first watch at night and woke someone else from among the Wardens to take the next shift so the Commander could rest too. Connor hadn’t actually been coherent enough at any point to notice if there was any kind of order to where the Wardens slept at night, if there was a pattern or way of guessing which sleeping lump on the ground was Nathaniel, or Oghren, or- well Oghren was probably the shortest one, but-

Oh forget it. Connor looked to the fire, lifted his hand slowly, and brought the embers up from a soft glow to a noticeably brighter blaze.

Blonde elf. Find the blonde elf. He should have been right-

“ _Zevran-_ ” Connor whispered. He hobbled over to the only blonde head around him. He knelt down and put a hand down on the Assassin’s shoulder. “ _Zevran-!”_  It seemed safer than shaking or poking or doing anything else. He was also lucky he knelt on the side Zevran was actually facing- because that was a knife and the elf was _not_ happy to see him.

Nothing about his breathing had changed. But one moment Zevran was sleeping and the next he was awake, and somehow it felt like the knife had always been there, tip tucked behind Connor’s knee and threatening to hamstring him if he didn’t prove himself not a threat _immediately_.

“ _He wanted you awake._ ” Connor might have whispered or he might have just mouthed the words without actually putting any voice to them. Whatever the truth was, the knife left his leg, and Zevran still hadn’t moved. The elf watched him, didn’t blink, the firelight reflecting off his pale eyes in such an eerie, glowing way that unsettled Connor a little bit.

Then he gestured, and managed not to rustle the blanket at all as he did it. Fingers to his lip and nose, then his hand open asking Connor for something.

Connor touched his own face and felt the congealed blood. Oh- he probably didn’t look very trustworthy right now. He shook his hands quickly, frantic, and gestured behind him.

“ _Go- go! A rider, Surana’s there-”_

Zevran hushed him by touching his own lips, then nodded. Connor took a look behind him in the dark, hoping not to see any magic at work. He couldn’t hear anything but when he looked back at Zevran the assassin was gone. His blankets hadn’t even fluttered with his escape, he was simply not there anymore.

What a terrifying trick.

Surana hadn’t given him any orders beyond the ones he’d just fulfilled. He was left there on his knees for a few seconds wondering if he should just lay down on the cold ground and pretend to be asleep, but he couldn’t sleep. And if things went badly he didn’t want to die with old blood dribbling out of his nose. Connor picked his way quietly across the camp to where the horses had been tethered, close to the shallow pond of water that made the campsite worth resting in. He knelt down on the soft earth and worked at the blood gently with handfuls of cold water, listening behind him, and repeatedly checking back in case he saw any magic at work. What if it was just subtle magic like another mage fire lamp? What if it was a glyph on the ground? Did ‘ _any magic_ ’ include the more benign forms too?

He washed his face and winced every time he brushed his nose too roughly. He really should just take the time to heal it- Surana had offered to do that for him already, hadn’t he? Maybe healing wasn’t out of the question for new recruits?

It was a tempting thought but he held off. Non-mage recruits didn’t get to sooth their blisters or training bumps with lyrium. If he woke up spry and pretty tomorrow morning then Nathaniel would probably just run Connor even harder than he did already.

He crept back to the camp. The others were still sleeping and the fire had burned itself down again. He added the last split log to the embers to make sure it kept going all night, then rolled out his bed and blanket for the night from Issan’s saddlebags. He pulled on his robe again, regretting having left it aside while Surana smacked him around with his staff, and finally sat down, stretching his legs. He kept looking back towards the road.

Finally, he heard voices. It sounded like Surana’s voice and it was pitched like a question. Then he said something else. Connor almost heard the voice that answered him, and then came the hoof-beats.

The horse was walking and the log Connor had given the fire was bringing up brighter flames again. The horse’s body was visible first as a great blur in the night, then came Surana’s gold staff picking up the light and catching some of it in its ruby head. The silverite edges on his boots formed next, then the rest of his armour as he walked slowly back to camp. Beside him, leading the horse, was the person who had put the fear of the Maker in Connor by appearing in the dark of night like this.

First he knew it was a knight by the armour- a Grey Warden breastplate and wide pauldrons. The blue fall of a woven warden tunic. He was surprised how quickly he recognized the figure as a woman, and human, but that was thanks to her not wearing her helmet. Why had a Grey Warden come riding through the middle of the night all alone? There was a shield on her back and a sword at her hip. Her dark face was blurry in the firelight but he could tell she had twisted, knotty hair parted over her head and down one side.

Surana saw him watching and nodded to him, showing his palm briefly as a sign for Connor to remain sitting and maybe bring his blood pressure down a little. He looked back at the Warden beside him and quietly walked her past the fire, then off into the dark where the other horses were resting from their long day. As they passed through the light, Connor frowned when he noticed the way the horse’s flanks were shaking. The animal had been ridden hard to get here, and its steps seemed uneven as it faded into the blackness at the edge of the fire.

Connor laid down on his bedroll. Curiosity couldn’t keep him going, not even something as curious as this. The last thing he saw was Zevran drift slowly back into sight and take a seat by the fire, alert and watching the night.

He felt safer than he should have knowing the assassin was right there, and slept.

Nathaniel didn’t kick him awake, or pour water on him, or just take Connor by the scruff and drag him towards the road. He woke up because there were fingers of sunlight poking him in both eyes and quiet voices around him. He woke up all on his own, unaccosted, and when he realized that he wasn’t being ordered to do anything Connor, of course, bolted upright.

“ _I’m late-_ ” He choked, horrified to hear birds chirping, to smell wood burning. This was peaceful and nice, this wasn’t what travelling with Grey Wardens was like! “I overslept-”

“Good morning to you too, recruit.” Zevran’s voice greeted him, and Connor rolled over and tried to kick his stiff legs to get the blanket off of him. He didn’t even wipe the crust off his eyes, or address the immediate wailing from his broken nose, he just scrambled off his bed roll and try to set the fabric and lambswool right so he could roll and bind it together. “Um…”

“No no, let him go at it.” Hawke’s voice drifted over as Connor’s sore fingers struggled with the toggles on his bedroll. He couldn’t make it go through, he couldn’t get the stupid thing to- “I wanna see if he gets up and starts running next. How far do you think he’ll go before he figures it out?” Connor stopped fighting with the bed roll.

He blinked, looked around him, and saw too many open bedrolls and cast off blankets. The fire wasn’t just burning, it was newly fed and the ashes had been brushed aside to keep the space neat. There was a clothes line hung with saddle blankets strung over it. He’d overslept but not been left behind, in fact…

“Y’see, that’s what I’ve been saying.” Now it was Nathaniel’s turn, and Connor just let himself be dragged down this confusing dream road as the Warden who was the bane of all good mornings materialized next to him, dropped down to sit on the saddlebags by the fire, and plunked a bowl of something hot and pleasant-smelling into Connor’s open hands. He looked down and it looked like wheat gruel, but with nuts and several luscious looking berries floating in it, not to mention the distinct golden glory of a small chunk of fresh honeycomb. “In way over his head, but determined to keep swimming. Nice welt by the way, Guerrin.”

“I’m so confused…” he whispered, because he was. He was so confused… “Is this the fade? Which one of you is the demon? This is really mean.”

“It’s called a _rest day_.” Zevran supplied, finally. “A novel discovery propagated by every travelling band, mercenary group, merchant caravan, and military order in Thedas. Wild, isn’t it?”

“I know what a rest day is.” Connor told him, which was bold of him because he was still so very, very confused. “But we’ve only been travelling for four days and the first was a half-day.”

“Is that _ingratitude_ I hear?” Hawke asked, sarcasm lending his words a veneer of scandal. “Can’t say I’d mind a five-mile run myself, something to get the blood flowing.” Connor’s raw limbs started screaming.

“No-” He whimpered. And then to make himself even more pathetic and small, he slumped himself down over his bed roll, head on the ground, one hand still awkwardly keeping his breakfast from spilling onto the pebbles beneath him. “No, I take it back. No ingratitude. Andraste herself gave the Commander this blessed inspiration. Please no.”

The Wardens laughed and it sounded a bit less mean than he’d expected. Nathaniel grabbed him by his belt and hauled Connor up until he was sitting again, his body tight and aching badly enough that he winced as he sat there on the stones. Now that he’d moved around this much, he closed his eyes with a pounding headache courtesy of his beaten face.

“Maker’s Breath, he gave you a wallop last night, didn’t he?” Howe said with a low whistle.

“You should see my shins.” Connor sulked, blowing on a spoonful of his breakfast to make sure it wasn’t too hot before gently taking a bite. He closed his eyes in relief. It was warm and thick and _sweet_ and-

He felt someone touch his face and automatically pulled away, confused. His neck then seized and a defeated grunt left him. He looked out at the fire and the whole world was a little bit crooked.

“Ow…” He grumbled, and then stuck the end of his spoon back in his mouth, sucking the rest of the honey off.

“Are you stuck like that?” Nathaniel asked.

“Forever and ever.” Words muddled by the spoon, he warmed the palm of his hand on the bottom of the bowl and then placed it over the tense, pulling muscle in his neck. He could feel it in a stressful, solid lump that bellowed in sharp pain beneath the skin. Rubbing helped, being patient was effective, and after a few second and several careful breaths Connor was able to straighten his head again. What he wouldn’t have given for a hot bath to soak in…

He got through a few more bites of his breakfast before he realized the confused silence around him, and looked at Nathaniel curiously. The older man was looking at him, eyes slightly narrow like he was thinking hard.

“Aren’t you a healer?” Howe asked.

“Mm,” was his first response, but then he finished enjoying the mouthful of sweet berries resting on his tongue. “Apprentices aren’t supposed to use their magic unsupervised. I know more theory than practice.”

“Aren’t _supposed to_ use magic,” Hawke repeated, “When you’re at _war_?”

“I was in Redcliffe and Skyhold for most of it.” Connor answered, and he felt his stomach slowly tighten up at the memories between Kinloch Hold and Redcliffe. His gaze drifted past Hawke to nothing specific across the camp. “I healed when I was able to, but it was safer to rely on herbs and poultices when I could get away with it. A splint takes longer to get someone back on their feet than laying your hands to them and using magic, but it’s less likely to go terribly wrong all at once. Magic is all about temperance and knowing when to use it.”

“You’d know more about this than I do,” Nathaniel said, throwing the comment at Hawke and making the other man frown. “Talk the lingo at him.” Hawke looked _disgusted_.

“What?” Connor asked.

“He’s weirdly trying to ask what sort of magic you can do.” Hawke explained. “Primal, Creation…” He trailed off, closing one eye and looking skyward, trying to think. “Uuuh, Spirit, and… dead… creepy shit.”

“Entropic Manipulation.” Connor supplied.

“Yeah, that. Do you do that?”

“Maker no.”

“Good, because I knew a mage in Kirkwall who did and _let me tell you_ …” Connor laughed despite himself, regretting it with an arm gently set across his stomach. Lifting and swinging his staff around had done a number on every inch of his body not previously set upon by Nathaniel’s running regime.

“We saw you use primal magic on Hawke at Skyhold.” Nathaniel finally said, but his voice came with a hesitation at the start and a warry eye still focused on Connor as he straightened up, breathing slowly through his mouth and trying to eat without his nose hurting too badly. “And you were drawing glyphs in the library, so you at least know the theory behind those.”

“You saw that?” Connor marvelled.

“No, I was too deeply engrossed in my Orlesian Poetry.” He said, straight-faced, and then frowned. “Yes I saw that.”

“I didn’t mean to offend.”

“You didn’t. I’m just confused is all.”

“If I can help, I will.” He probably couldn’t, but he’d try.

“Did you serve in the Inquisition’s army?”

“No.” Oh no, they were digging to find out how good a battlemage he was. “I helped the wounded when they returned to the keep, the- um…” The dying. That was most of the _‘healing’_ Connor had done. “I… didn’t really do that much healing.”

“That’s not what the Medics said.” Hawke strung the weirdest set of words together to make a sentence and Connor had to stare at him for a few seconds to be sure he understood it.

“You spoke to the Medics?” He asked.

“What,” Hawke bit back. “Did you think we’d just abscond from Skyhold with some mageling we knew nothing about? Of course we asked around first. And that’s how we know you had the hardest job in the damned camp.”

“I didn’t do very well with it then,” Connor rebuked, stung by the odd words. “No one I ever treated got better.”

“They weren’t people who _could_ get better, you ninny.”

“ _Hawke._ ” Nathaniel’s voice had a clear warning in it. Next to him, the Warden stood up, stretching his arms up over his head with a long sigh and a grunt. He wasn’t wearing all of his armour this morning, he’d removed the sturdy leather chest-piece meant to protect him from arrows and stray blades, and his bow arm was free of its usual pauldron. “Let the boy eat, I’ll be back in a minute.”

Hawke kicked his feet out where he was sitting on his saddlebag and made a loud huff. Connor stirred his breakfast and tried not to let the growing noise in his head overwhelm him. If today was a rest day then maybe he’d sacrifice a few leaves of that prepared elfroot in his pack and make himself something to sooth his headache and maybe bring the swelling down across his face. If he used Nathaniel’s stretches, he might feel a little less fragile in a few hours…

He ate his gruel and examined the camp again. Zevran was seated by the laundry line diligently stitching what looked like a set of leather reins, and was engrossed in his work. Of Oghren and the Commander he could see no sign however, but watched Nathaniel round a bend between the light trees and bushes of their camp until he was nearly out of sight.

“We didn’t stop because of you, by the way.” Connor was almost finished his food by the time Hawke spoke up again. “You’re right, four days with us going as slow as we have is too early to need a rest, especially when we’ve got places to be. The problem is that if we make that _shield_ woman’s horse go another mile then the poor thing might drop dead.”

He took the last bite just so it would still be warm when it went in his mouth. Scraping the very last of the honey off the edge, Connor finally answered. “Shield woman?”

“Booklier.” Hawke sort of said. “Ball-clear. Bou- whatever her name. Remember that Orlesian Warden the Commander had to put in her place at Skyhold?”

“Vividly.” Connor allowed. “I thought her name was _Bouclier_?”

“Yeah- that.” The Warden slumped off the saddlebag so he was on the ground and leaning on it. He’d removed the metal greaves that usually kept his legs protected, and kicked his boots one over the other at the edge of the fire. “However you said it.”

“That’s who caught up with us last night?”

“Oh yeah, you would’ve been awake for that, weren’t you?” Yes he had been, if barely. “No idea what she’s here for but she’s been under the Commander’s feet like a mabari since they both got up this morning. Between you and I, I think he’s a bit- _oh_.”

Hawke sat up and then got to his feet. Connor didn’t get there half as quickly or as gracefully, in fact he just didn’t get there. His foot found the ground but his knee said “no.” and his hip laughed at him. He sat back down, bowl tipped over on the pebbles below, and tried to figure out a better plan of attack for his problem.

He saw Zevran’s head come up and the Assassin’s handiwork vanished, he was standing too.

Hawke had tried to say that the Commander was a _bit_ something. Connor was too timid to fill in the missing word. He followed the camp’s attention and saw Warden Oghren swinging his arms and stomping towards the fire, and beside him was the human Warden from four days ago at Skyhold- black twisted hair, harsh face, stubborn disposition. But she was behind the shoulder of Commander Surana, who looked a bit, um… A bit something.

“Perhaps this could have waited,” Nathaniel was on Surana’s side opposite Oghren. “I didn’t mean to-”

“I know.” Surana said, pale eyes held wide open, lips thin and tense. “But you did.”

“Sir-”

“I know.”

Connor demanded his limbs work immediately and found his feet properly this time. Captain Bouclier said something and Surana’s modest stride lengthened considerably. He got far enough ahead of the other three that he could stop and spin on the ball of his foot in one swift, smooth action.

His scarred hand was open in front of her.

“I,” and then he closed that hand, for emphasis. “- _understand_. Captain.”

He turned away from her. Connor heard the, _“But Commander-_ ” and saw the effect it had on Surana from twenty paces. He was wearing neither his armour or his mage robes, just the black shirt that usually went under his breastplate and arms, and then the blue tunic that fell to his knees. He didn’t even have his sword or staff with him. The Commander was just so harried and so _fed up_ with whatever Bouclier had to say that Connor actually saw the flicker of static arc over the mage’s chest and the glimmer of mania in his large eyes before the elf exhaled his words with sudden calm.

“ _Yes_.” He pronounced the word loud and clearly enough for the entire camp to hear. “You have my permission to stay, Captain Bouclier. You will fall in-rank with the rest of my men and perform the duties expected of you as an Officer of the Grey. Your apology is accepted, your gesture is appreciated, and this conversation. Is. Over.”

Bouclier needed a moment. She’d reeled a little with his announcement, but once she understood it she smiled.

Oghren shouted like he’d just been kicked.

“Thank you, Warden Commander.” She said, Orlesian accent draped over the relieved words.

“Soren!” The dwarf barked, and _oh_ , the look he got was enough to curl his beard and make Oghren choke on his own ire.

“Finished.” Surana repeated. “Another word and I take you back to Felsi in a jar. You remain second in command, Oghren, but this discussion is _over_.”

“Hhng, yes sir.” The Dwarf grumbled blackly.

“Pardon me?”

“Yes, Sir!” He shouted properly. Surana nodded and then turned away.

Maker help him, he was headed right for Connor with Nathaniel in his shadow.

“Connor.” No, no, no, the Commander was frightening enough as it was, Connor couldn’t handle him when he was _already angry_. Hawke had cleverly vanished and was now a safe distance away from whatever was about to happen. The Commander’s irritated face told him to be on guard, but there was a frankness about him that kept Connor’s anxiety from seizing his heart and squeezing too badly. “I have an important question for you.”

“Yes, Commander?”

“Have you been healing your injuries or using magic to sooth your body at the end of every day?” This felt like a trap. Surana was always still awake to take the first watch at the end of the night, and Connor was usually the first one asleep unless the Commander was giving him instruction with his staff.

“No, Commander.” He answered, suddenly sheepish. Surana closed his eyes like a disappointed parent and Connor wanted to cry out something in his defense- but he had none.

The Commander let out a breath, and it was slow and raw with frustration. Eyes closed he walked around the fire without coming close to it and stood right in front of him.

“I don’t do this very often, Guerrin.” He explained, opening his eyes and looking up at Connor again. “Don’t make me form a habit.” Oh right, he’d forgotten how short he-

 _Smack_.

The Commander cuffed him. He got him right over the ear with his wrist and Connor was lucky it was just a cuffing and not a proper punch or a wallop with the staff like last night. The bad part was that it made his face _explode_ with pain when he jerked so suddenly away from the light hit. The settled bones in his nose shifted and his headache radiated across his scalp like tiny burning needles. He closed his eyes and clutched his face with a weak groan, embarrassment flaring from having such a _bad_ reaction to such a _light_ blow.

Through the dizzying pain, he heard the Commander’s voice lecturing him:

“You’re not a foot soldier, you’re a mage.” He said. “You’re not a hunter, you’re a _mage_. You’re not even a battlemage, not yet. You weren’t recruited for your physical strength or endurance, Connor, you were recruited for your magic. _Use it_.” Oh Maker his whole body _ached_ …

“Yes, Commander…” He moaned.

“Take the day,” Surana continued, and it sounded like he sighed again. “Start with your head and work down, consider it a basic test of your skills as a front-line healer. And _no elfroot_ either: I didn’t recruit an apothecary.”

“ _Yes, Commander_ …”

“Sit.” Connor sat. Connor hurt, but Connor sat. “And if I find out who put the idea in his head that mages can’t use their magic in camp, I’ll take a page from Duncan and tie that person’s hands to my saddle to make sure they keep up with me. _Understood_?”

“Yes, Commander!” _Aaaaah…_

The first step to obediently following his new orders was to wait for part of his headache to subside. This was not an easy thing to do, because after the Commander’s footsteps trailed away to deal with some other frustrating part of his day, Hawke’s footsteps crowded back into Connor’s little bubble of painful space.

“…I’d still say that beats getting thrown in a horse trough.”

Connor laughed. It came out through his nose, and he cried out miserably with his face in his hands before slowly tipping over onto his bedroll.

“No- don’t make me laugh..!” He groaned, hands still in place and no magic to be found yet. “I’m not made to handle happiness…” He could smile though, but Andraste please, don’t force him to laugh.

“You’re in the right line of work then.” Hawke’s hand clapped him twice on the shoulder and Connor groaned again for effect. “Get to it, don’t want him coming back to find you kicking around in the dirt.”

“What are you going to do?” He asked, prone on the ground and unwilling to move.

He heard Hawke give a big, fake yawn.

“ _I_ am going to take a nap on that nice bit of grass over there.”

Connor laughed again, and oh how his body _hurt_.


	13. The Secret of Good Magic

 

If Captain Bouclier’s introduction was supposed to have an effect on the rest of the Company then Connor was too stupid to know what it was. He spent every morning staggering in Nathaniel’s wake, endured the afternoons being teased and trying to fend off Hawke, and at night the Commander beat him with a stick until he passed out. He only ever heard Oghren swearing or laughing, and Zevran was constantly walking around with a smile that suggested he knew everybody’s worst secrets.

He really didn’t know these men that well, so throwing a new Warden into the mixture was quite a simple thing to accept. As long as she didn’t make him run or start hitting him with anything, then Connor would get along with Captain Bouclier just fine, thank you.

He spent the morning of the rest day healing himself. It was actually a little bit nice, come to think of it. He didn’t take much comfort in magic: had never grown too comfortable or attached to the power resting inside of him. Some things he liked just because he didn’t know how else to react. His robe was functional, well-made, and a sign of status he hadn’t enjoyed since leaving his parents. His staff was a tool that belonged to him now instead of being perpetually on loan from the Circle or the Rebels. The ring, well, that was a tiny fragment of his life that happened to overlap with the Hero of Ferelden’s, so he sort of had to be incredibly attached to that, didn’t he?

But the act of using magic itself, if he was honest…

For Connor, magic was a burning energy caged in his ribs. Amara had said it was a whirlwind of colours rolling deep in her gut, and Enchanter Leorah had called it the tingling sensation over the back of your hand when someone brushes feathers over it. He was too shy to even think the question too loudly in Commander Surana’s direction, but it was probably something else for him too. For Connor it was fire, always burning on the edge of painful, and it sat above his stomach and between both lungs.

As a metaphysical act, the use of magic was pulling threads or ropes of that fire out through the rest of his body and trying not to sear himself in the process. It wasn’t necessarily a _‘primal’_ fire either, and by the time it got to his hands it usually wasn’t fire at all. Fire was bad for healing and didn’t make good glyphs either. Jylan had tried, and failed, to prove Connor wrong on that point to the ire of many enchanters.

When the fire was used up to the point of extinguishing it was usually when Connor would vomit, piss himself, or pass out. The irony of having a fire in his body that always almost hurt but could never go out without killing him was very important to Connor. He would have been very disappointed with his life if he ever woke up one morning to find feathers or fairy lights burrowing into his soul instead.

But on to the task at hand. Fixing up his body didn’t take the whole day, it barely took an hour all together and he made a point of going slowly. He drew strands of power from that great heat inside of him and strung them around. The colour he had always been told to imagine was green, and when administering the spell it was supposed to feel was the gentle lap of cool water. He’d never been bold enough to admit to Leorah that healing was actually neither of those things to him.

By the time the magic reached his hands for weaving and placement over his own aching head, it had turned to the gentle scent of lavender and felt like smooth, tiny white pearls rolling under his fingertips. It was quiet and safe, like the velvet insides of a black lacquered box. Enchanter Leorah might have been scandalized to know his healing was a scent instead of a colour, but so be it. He was a Harrowed mage now and his headache was gone.

The magic slowly, gently, eased the shards of bone and tough tissue in his face back where they belonged, leaving him with the bruise but none of the pain or actual damage from the blow. His knee required a light massage of magic until the tendons stopped burning, and he applied the same treatment to the other knee just because healing one pointed out how sore the other was. Flexing his feet without his boots on was marvellous, and wiping away the blisters was almost as nice as putting on the pair of clean socks from his pack. Healing was no substitute for a hot bath, but this was still a wonderful improvement.

Connor would have happily laid down by the fire and slept the way Hawke had jested, but the camp was too active for him to just nod off. The morning was young and bright, and it was even a little bit warmer than the last few days- or he was just in a very good mood.

Oghren, in contrast, was _not_ in a good mood. He was grumbling to himself and had taken a seat across from Connor at the fire. They’d fought no battles but he had his war hammer resting across his lap with an oiled rag and whetstone and was polishing it, scraping the sides of it with a wide stone to work down any large chips. He was in an ugly, ugly mood and sleeping so close to him felt unwise.

“Quit yer starin’, recruit.” The dwarf barked at him.

“Um- sorry. I didn’t mean to.”

“And quit calling me ‘ _sir’!”_

“But I didn’t?” Connor flubbed. Oghren stopped moving the grindstone.

“Shit,” he said. “Yer right.” He put on a black, black look and spat on the ground. “Sodding humans.”

“Uh- should… am I allowed to ask what happened this morning?”

“The Commander got nagged into submission is what happened!” Oghren bellyached. “Ancestors Below, the man carries on with _Morrigan_ of all people but can’t hold his own in a four-hour debate. How he ever got the Assembly to quit their bitchin’ is beyond me…”

“He can be very persuasive when he wants to be?” Connor tried, lamely. His throat felt dry. Oghren stopped working again and looked at him straight this time, eyes narrow.

“Are you suggestin’ the Commander didn’t even _try_ to get that woman to follow orders?”

“Um-” Connor felt his heart flutter nervously. “What were the orders?”

“To go with her comrades to Vigil’s Keep further east and let Ferelden’s Wardens handle Ferelden’s problems.” Oh- right. Connor remembered that now. The whole grand speech before galloping out of Skyhold- yes. Silly mage for forgetting that.

“Is there a reason we don’t want her with us?” Connor asked. Oghren’s scowl grew darker.

“What did I just fuckin’ _say_ , recruit?”

“I mean- I meant aside from that.” He tried. This was not going well.

“Now you listen here,” Oh Holy Andraste, he’d made Oghren _mad_. “The Orlesian order’s been standing buck naked in the corner shitting in its own mouth for the last year since Adamant Fortress.” That was mean- “But every Orlesian Warden at Skyhold is a good one- the ones who actually looked for something meaningful to do with themselves when this broodmother of a storm got kicked up between them and Weisshaupt. They’re leaderless and desperate to get their honour back, and what do desperate, leaderless men do?” Connor ended up looking past Oghren for a moment trying to see if he was supposed to answer that himself. Thankfully, he wasn’t.

“They look for a leader and they flock to ‘im and they get into all kinds of shit with or without his say-so.” The dwarf explained. “One new Warden ain’t a problem, recruit, it’s the two others who’re gonna arrive tomorrow, and the four the day after that, and then the group of twenty that comes next week.” If their company swelled to the size of an army in little more than a month then there would be an awful lot of explaining to do in King Alistair’s court.

“That’s why the Commander told them to go to Vigil’s Keep.” It clicked for Connor. “He said they were going to vote for the new Warden Commander of Orlais from their own ranks, and in the meantime we in his company would go to the Storm Coast-” Oghren was nodding.

“And then the Western Approach,” He finished up. “Which is on the opposite side of Thedas from the Vigil.” And then Connor felt confused again.

“They were angry thinking he’d take control of them at Skyhold,” He said. “Now… he’s worried they’ll- what? Make him Warden Commander of Orlais on top of Ferelden?”

“Wouldn’t you?” Oghren asked, and it was a fair question. “They were angry when they thought Weisshaupt was trying to keep them under control. But the Hero of Ferelden who slew the Archdemon and survived to tell about it?”

“Who wouldn’t vote for that…” Connor murmured, folding his hands together and resting his face on his fingers, staring at the fire.

“Exactly.” Oghren seemed content, or at least a lot less angry.

“It wouldn’t be a bad idea.” A new voice said, and Connor looked up in time to hear Oghren swear and see Captain Bouclier step around the saddlebags and stand at the fire’s edge, arms folded. “It would open up a new chapter for the Order.”

“Yeah, the _final_ one.” Oghren grumbled, but then opened a hand up and gestured for Bouclier to sit. _Far away from him_. “Listen, Captain, the Orlesians’ cockfight with Weisshaupt is between the remains of Clarel’s inner circle and whoever’s in charge of running letters through the Anderfels. The First Warden’s never done wrong by Ferelden or our Warden Commander, he’s not gonna help you.”

“He’s opened the Vigil to us.” Bouclier said. Her voice was deep when she spoke normally, not fanned by the same high passion as when she’d embarrassed herself at Skyhold. “That’s something.”

“To get you off the Inquisition’s back, yeah.” Oghren scoffed at her. “And instead of keeping your members within shouting distance of the Anderfels, he’s told you and yours to fuck off to the absolute other end of Thedas. I hope you dressed for the Weather, Captain: Ferelden is _cold_.”

The dwarf was very pleased with himself when he ended on that note. Connor kept his mouth shut and tried not to stare outright at Bouclier for her reaction. Her thick lips were tense along the top, like she was making an effort not to curl them in disgust at the Warden who was now her superior in this company. Her chin had a soft cleft in it, marred by a jagged scar that licked the underside of her jaw. Her flat nose was wide and gave her a soft profile, but the years had folded a few lines near her eyes and across her brow. He’d thought her hair was black, but in the daylight and without a bunch of brawling Wardens around, Connor could see that it was brown and the ends noticeably lighter than her skin. Every few strands of knotty hair had been twisted together over the top of her head, and down the right side, the rest shaved away. A red scarf was knotted around her throat, probably to cushion where her helmet was meant to rest, but she wore none of her armour from the night before. Her shield and sword might have been amongst the tools and items resting around the camp, but Connor didn’t know them well enough to find at a glance.

“If it’s all the same to you, I am more put off by the thought of being wet.” She finally said, her accent letting the words tilt the conversation away from the uncomfortable ground. “The Storm Coast is not known for its days of warm sunlight.”

Connor groaned. Stupid move.

“You are not used to travelling, Mage?” She asked, of him, because Connor had made a stupid noise. “You were recruited at Skyhold, no? Have you taken your Joining yet?”

“Not yet, ma’am, no.” Connor answered. “I think they’re trying to break me first.”

“I thought the Commander told you to fix yourself up?” Oghren grunted at him, scowling again.

“He did- I did.” Connor’s shoulders came up defensively at the question. Afraid to disappoint, he reached up with a hand and grabbed his nose, wiggling at the bridge to show it didn’t hurt. “The bruises will be gone by tonight.” He pledged.

“It takes time to adjust to a wandering life,” Bouclier said to him, and her voice sounded gentle. “But if the company is willing to train you then you should do just fine. There… is a large gap in seniority here, isn’t there?” That question was for Oghren, who was giving Connor a slow, measuring, uncomfortable look. “Constable.”

“What?” The dwarf grunted, still staring at Connor.

“I said there is a large gap, this company has no trainee Wardens.”

“We got the kid.” Oghren grunted. “He’s right in front of you, Captain.”

“And the next is Warden Hawke, who has been with the Order for ten years.”

“Not my problem.” He rebuked, and Connor just let his fear flash from one Warden to the other. “And Hawke’s only been with _us_ for the last three.”

“Is that strange?” Connor warbled, confused. In an army it would be odd indeed to only have a new recruit every ten years, but Wardens were always moving in tiny groups, rarely picking up new-

“Not as strange as you thinkin’ you get t’ sit on your ass all day doing nothing!” Oghren barked at him and Connor _really did jump_ that time. “On your feet, recruit!”

Somewhere sacred and private and quiet in Connor’s soul, he started screaming.

“Okay…” was the broken noise he actually made.

“And get yer staff!”

“Yes… I will.” And he did, disappointed and sullen as Oghren rocked up to his feet and Connor felt the tranquility of the rest day slip through his fingers. Bouclier was watching them with open interest, and when Connor followed Oghren away around the fire he heard her footsteps following them.

Zevran and the Warden Commander had vanished some time ago, but as they walked out towards the road where there was more space, Connor thought he heard a laugh trail over from somewhere deeper in camp. Hawke was resting against the tree where the wash line was pegged, and looked up from the open book in his lap when the three of them marched past.

Oghren swung his arms with determination but detoured before reaching the road, kicking aside a bedroll and finding a kite shield resting there against the saddlebags. Its face was turned away, but it wasn’t Bouclier’s and the only other shield in the company belonged to-

“Um-”

“Is that not the Commander’s?” Bouclier actually managed to say what Connor choked on, but Oghren scoffed at both of them and went ahead with pinching the Commander’s shield and storming towards the road. Connor didn’t know what he was going to suffer exactly, but at least he had two higher-ranking Wardens to cower behind if things went badly.

“Quit gettin’ yer silk ribbons in a twist, Orlesian.” Oghren grunted at her. “I’m usin’ it for what it’s used for. Recruit! Stand over there.” Connor followed the jabbed finger and stood over there, about twenty feet from Oghren where the dwarf was holding the Commander’s shield up in front of him. As shields went it was on the shorter end of things. The shape made it wide enough to cover the breadth of the shoulders and most of the torso, but protecting the head or the legs would compromise its effectiveness. Really though, the most important part of it was the face.

The shield was made of either steel or silverite, but probably the former. What mattered was the dazzling colours: Connor’s heart sank, he knew a ceremonial coat of arms when he saw one. At the base of the shield near the point was the prowling body of Amaranthine’s bear, fur and claws enamelled in a rich caramel colour and detailed with gold. The bear’s head was looking up at the spread wing of a griffon placed half-way up the shield and waving its wing out from the left. Behind the bear and over the wing stood a black tower, the Spire of Fort Drakkon, although Connor admitted you could mistake it for Kinloch Hold if you wanted to. But people usually didn’t want to. Done very small in gold and red near the top of the tower, small but important, was the Ferelden Kingdom’s coat of arms: two rearing mabari hounds.

The herald was meant to be read from top to bottom: The Hero of Ferelden, Grey Warden of Amaranthine. If you were caddy and read Fort Drakkon as Kinloch Hold then it announced his allegiance to the Magi. If you were simply hopeless then you looked at it and thought of Redcliffe, the place where the Hero was also known as the Champion. And if you were Connor then you looked at the shield and thought ‘ _Please don’t hit me with that’_.

Oghren was chuckling in his throat and kicked one foot out. Unlike Hawke and Nathaniel whose leather boots had greaves over them, Oghren’s were metal through and through. His heel caught on the cobbles of the road and he swung his foot out, scuffing the road and leaving a white mark. He then set his toe on that line and hunkered down in a defensive stance.

“Square up, Mage!” Connor very, very reluctantly squared up, bringing his staff around in front of him and setting his legs into a low position in case he had to run away. “Now you listen good to old Oghren: no spells! None of that _flaming hands_ bullshit! Yer gonna use the bolts from that fancy stick of yours to push me back or knock me over and nothing else, got it?”

“But that shield-”

“It’s a _shield_ , Guerrin!” Oghren bellowed back, standing up properly so he could yell over the top of the shield at him. “It’s made ‘a metal and it’s meant t’ be hit with shit! Don’t chicken out just ‘cause it’s pretty!”

“ _But-_ ”

“Honestly, just use mine instead.” Bouclier cut in, and Connor thought this was a _much_ better idea as the Captain walked away to the fire. Hawke was quiet and watching curiously from camp, kicking one foot back and forth at the ankle as he observed all this excitement without seeing the need to involve himself. Bouclier came back with her own kite shield, slightly longer than the Commander’s and boasting several dozen round steel rivets that looked like they would hurt a great deal if you bounced off them. She offered it to Oghren, who spat something about a shield being a shield being a sodding shield, but he took the Orlesian one and gave back the enamelled piece.

Connor felt much better about all of this, and finally let himself attempt the new training task in front of him.

A spell and a bolt were similar but different forms of magic. One came from the Mage: a spell had to be intended, conjured, and have its power supplies by the person casting it. A bolt came almost entirely from the staff in the mage’s hands, and it did so by feeding off the mage’s will. Anyone with a little bit of motor control could swing a staff at someone’s head, but only a mage could awaken the stone fastened at the staff’s head and use it to launch a bolt of energy. Even a mage who had no more magic left to put into a spell could keep swinging and firing with their staff as long as they hadn’t lost the will to keep trying.

Spells were a mage’s inner magical power. Bolts were the mage’s will at work on the physical world.

“Alright, I’m ready now.” He said.

“Then get on with it!” Oghren shouted back, hunkering down again like before. “I’ll tell you when to stop!”

Connor took a deep breath, swung his staff behind him with a flick of his wrist to get it spinning, and then pulled the head around to throw a bolt. It was his first time doing so with this staff, and it was exciting when several fraying white lines of magic collected and fired off the serpentstone crystal locked in the staff’s silverite fingers.

The bolt took Bouclier’s shield square and Oghren lurched a little, but that was it.

“…Did I tell ya t’ stop, recruit!?” Oghren barked at him. “Get a rhythm going, ya nug-chasing lyrium sucker!”

Swallowing hard, Connor squared up and tried again. Once with the head, then the tail, then around with the head again. He had more practice in the last few days just swinging the staff around continually, and now there was the added strain of keeping constant mental pressure on the staff to perform the attack over and over again. It didn’t affect the fiery mana steaming in his chest, but after several successive swings and turns of the staff Connor’s arms began to kick up a weak protest.

“Keep em coming, Guerrin! I ain’t moving yet!” Oh no, he’d already explained this part: Connor had to actually _move him_? An entire dwarf _and_ a Chevalier’s shield?

Swing, fire. Swing, fire. Swing, fire. Spin and fire. Swing, fire. Turn and fire. Swing, fire. Swing- his shoulders didn’t like _this_ …

“ _I’ve passed gas harder than this, recruit!_ ” Ugh- shut up! He couldn’t _feel_ his right arm anymore.

“Hawke, I thought he wasn’t training today?”

“So you’re back. What did you catch for dinner?” Swing, fire. Swing, fire. Swing, fire. Spin and fire. Swing, fire...

“Answer my question.”

“Personally I wouldn’t mind rabbit again.”

“Answer me or I throw you in front of the shield.” Connor could barely hear Hawke and Howe bickering. His lungs were feeling raw again without the running this time, and he’d started coming in late with the command for his staff to fire: several bolts missed or fell short, and Oghren mocked each one.

“Guess this sloppy aim lets us all know there was no sad lady friend left back in Skyhold!” That didn’t even make- wait, maybe it did. That was _crude!_

Swing and pull and fire and turn and fire and swing and fire and turn and pull and fire and swing and- Connor thought he was going to _collapse_ when light suddenly blossomed at his feet. It threw his rhythm off and he staggered to a stop, looking down at an array of vibrant white lines and blue afterglow under him. The pain in his legs eased off with both the magic and the way he’d stopped moving. His arms were weak and his grip on the staff loose, but breathing became easier.

Confused, he looked and saw Surana tucking his staff under his arm and leaning on it casually. He was speaking to Captain Bouclier.

“Why are you carrying my shield?” He asked, and she offered it back to him.

“The recruit was worried about damaging it in this exercise.” She said, and Surana looked down at the enamelled steel thoughtfully before nodding his head. “Not the shield itself, but the herald. Mine makes for a fine substitute.”

“I appreciate the thought, Captain. I’d rather damage it in a fight, not training.”

“ _GUERRIN!_ ” Connor jumped out of his skin and saw an angry dwarf shouting over the top of Bouclier’s steaming, slightly blackened shield. “I SAID NO SPELLS, YOU ROCK-FOR-BRAINS BROKEN SPIGOT OF A-”

“I didn’t!” Connor shouted back, scared. “I didn’t use any magic, I-” Didn’t matter. Oghren banged the edge of the shield on the ground, stomped his foot, and shouted:

_“QUIT CODDLING THE KID!”_

Surana regarded him with a raised brow.

“QUIT CODDLING THE KID, **SIR!** ” Oghren amended.

Surana waved his hand and the glyph vanished.

Connor gagged on the sudden lack of support, momentarily caught himself on his staff, but then just pitched forward on to his own face. His arms flared with pain and lost all strength, his legs seized up, and the staff’s tail couldn’t find a place to catch between the cobbles and keep him upright. He liked to think he landed with a satisfying _thump_ on the road.

“Carry on.” The Commander said. And Connor ‘ _no, no, no´_ d many times against the cobbles.

“Up, recruit!” No, no, no, no….

By the time Oghren gave Bouclier’s shield back Connor had moved him a dazzling six inches from his starting position. This had taken an hour, and Connor’s body felt like overcooked gruel. After lunch, thankfully, it was Bouclier’s turn for training.

Connor was fairly sure if Hawke had just approached Bouclier and said _‘I want to see how you fight’_ she would have cordially agreed and stood up to face him. But Connor was beginning to understand that Carver Hawke could not be counted on to just genially walk up to someone in a professional manner and request anything. No, instead he had to lead with _‘you bastard Orlesians think you’re masters of the field!’_ and it all went downhill very quickly from there.

“If Hawke wins it’s a round of drinks on me.” Thankfully, Nathaniel was there to smooth Bouclier’s feathers and rattle Hawke’s chain a bit. “And a round on Hawke if she makes him cry.”

“ _I’ll take that bet!_ ” Hawke shouted, slamming his helmet on over his own head.

Unlike the spar at Skyhold where Hawke had stripped his arms and armour off, out here and between two front line fighters there were significantly fewer rules. They were fighting to submission or until they pushed one another out of the ring. They weren’t allowed to run each other through with their swords, but Hawke was absolutely going to fight with the two-handed longsword from his gear, and Bouclier’s freshly polished shield met with the guard of her sword several times to make a horribly intimidating noise as she limbered up.

“Connor heals the injured.” Surana announced at the last moment, and Connor squawked something in surprise and protest. “Just don’t dismember each other. Begin!”

Warriors who fought with both hands on their weapon, Connor learned very quickly, counted on beating the brains out of their opponent in as few blows as possible. Soldiers who carried heavy shields and short swords, in contrast, built their careers on being able to take those hard blows and countering in-between heavy swings.

Bouclier was noticeably slower than Hawke, make no mistake. Her shield alone was at least five to ten pounds of steel and silverite, and her warden breastplate was worn higher to protect her heart and lungs from direct hits. She had extra metal plates down her flanks to stop anyone with a dagger from coming in behind and striking her kidneys, and when Hawke _did_ try to flank her she nearly snapped his sword with the well-placed edge of her shield cutting around to stop him.

Unlike Hawke her helmet was smooth and without wings, meaning one of his blows that glanced off the top of her shield also passed easily across her head with barely a spark.  When they moved around each other, Hawke took twice the number of steps: he had to get around the shield and, she had to keep it between them.

It was frightening how excited Connor got while watching them. At one point near the start Hawke lifted both hands over his head to bring the sword down hard, and Bouclier slammed her shield forward right into his exposed chest, sending him tumbling back. Her sword bit the dirt where his knee lingered almost too long, but she still caught the edge of his calf where the greave didn’t protect. His retaliating swipe was the one that nicked over the top of her shield and had nothing at the helmet to grab and tear against.

After circling and trading blows Hawke took advantage of his own might. He slammed once with his blade straight and sure on the top of the shield, and on the rebound from the blow slammed the pommel of his sword down. Then the guard, then the pommel again, and he gave such a holler inside his helmet that Bouclier’s guard broke. She staggered and the shield dropped, her balance falling back where she caught herself on her hands. Hawke’s sword came down and Connor swore he’d cleave her in two, but the Captain moved.

She spun to her knees, shield up and sword arm bracing it from behind. Hawke’s sword dropped too far and her shield took him square in the face.

She pushed, rose until they were both on their feet and hit him again. He staggered back, losing his grip with one hand.

It happened _slowly_ because her roar was _so loud_ Connor couldn’t follow it. His eyes told him she gently placed the shield against his chest, but there was nothing gentle about the turn and force that picked Hawke right up off both feet and flung him back through the air.

“ _Poetry!_ ” Nathaniel cheered, laughing outright. Oghren was profaning in Hawke’s direction and Commander Surana and Zevran shared a wince with each other. Connor didn’t even hear the crash of shield and armour, or the noise Hawke must have made when he landed hard on his shoulders and his legs collapsed straight in front of him. He was just too excited to realize how heavy that hit must have been.

“ _Bravo_ , Captain! Bravo!” Nathaniel was all smiles and laughter. Bouclier pulled her helmet off, dark hair crushed by the weight and sweat until she shook it out and pulled a gauntlet off. She had worked herself up and took heavy breaths to get through it, but she flashed a white smile at Howe and then walked forward, armour clinking, to offer Hawke a hand at getting up.

Connor had expected him to be bitter about the loss, especially since he was groaning gently on the ground, but as soon as he saw Bouclier the other Warden stuck a hand up in the air, which she took, and he let himself be hauled up to his feet by her.

“Aaagh… Good fight, Captain.”

“Perhaps you’ll watch what you say about my countrymen in the future, Warden Hawke?”

“I’ll watch which way that shield is going, that’s for sure.” Hawke’s armour jostled slightly, and he grunted again. “Agh-” It shimmied? That was the best word. His shoulders moved and he scuffed one foot on the ground. Bouclier’s satisfaction dipped to concern.

“Did I-?”

“My helmet.” Hawke supplied. His body moved awkwardly again. “Um- I can’t turn my head?”

“Recruit Guerrin?” Bouclier called him and Connor hurried over, anxiety gripping his heart and _squeezing_. He didn’t want to be responsible for-

“No, no, I don’t need _healing_.” Hawke clarified, but then held a hand up when Connor tried to get away. “Oi, stay. Captain bashed the lip of my helmet in. You hold these a tick.”

Hawke got his gauntlets off and started fiddling at the collar of his armour where the plates met the edge of the helmet. Then he grabbed at the wings on his helmet and grunted as he tried to pull. Bouclier set her shield down and tried to help him. Nathaniel started laughing, quietly, and when Hawke sat down and told Connor to grab and pull the helmet Nathaniel started laughing, loudly.

“Maker’s Breath, how hard did I hit you?”

“Not hard, but if the sodding mage would just _pull_ and-”

“I had nothing to do with this!” Connor defended.

“Put your damned foot on my shoulder and _pull!_ ”

“It’s stuck-”

“ _GET IT OFF!”_

They did, eventually, get Hawke’s head out of his helmet. Oghren also, eventually, decided that Bouclier was an alright sort of Warden to have hanging around their company. The Captain spent the rest of that evening with a small set of hammers and tools from her saddlebags making minor repairs to the helmet so it wouldn’t catch again, and in exchange Hawke recounted the story behind why Nathaniel wouldn’t stop laughing about _another woman sending him flying_.

“A horse trough?”

“A horse trough.”

“But she must have hit you much harder than I did. I would like to meet this woman someday.”

“If you stick with us until Vigil’s Keep and she decides to visit the Commander, then maybe you will.”

The company ate well and the horses were pampered with extra brushing and grazing time. They were still several days from their destination, but Connor went to sleep feeling quite content for once.

Nathaniel dumped water on his head before dawn.

“Up you get.”

“Please don’t sing.”

Nathaniel did sing.

The rest day had been good for Connor. He didn’t mind the walking and with his robe and gear and staff he was able to jog at a moderate pace for long enough that Nathaniel started walking again without waiting for him to pitch over and vomit on the road side. They were moving consistently downhill now, out and away from the Frostbacks, and Connor was thankful for this as he walked. And again he started running, and again it wasn’t quite that bad.

The others overtook them on horseback about a mile into their run. Grins and waves and a few rude comments aimed at Nathaniel leaving them walking through the dust until the horses were out of sight and the Warden got them running again. It stopped being fun after that and it went back to the same gasping, limping, groaning pain Connor had unfortunately blocked out since yesterday.

The horses were waiting for them at noon and Connor hugged Issan’s saddle for a few minutes before mounting up. Bouclier was explaining an Orlesian word-game to Zevran and Connor was too focused on drinking water and learning to breathe to notice when Issan sped up her canter a little and was nearly abreast with Commander Surana.

“Connor.” _Ack-_ “Ride with me a bit.”

“Y-Yes, sir.” Connor nudged Issan gently with his heels and the horse increased her gait a little, coming up even with the white mount beside her and settling back down again comfortably.

“This might be out of place, Connor, but I’ve been curious.” Surana said. He was speaking to Connor but looking out at the road. There was moorland to the right of them now, the rocks and hills much rougher to their left and north along the road. “Did they still practice this in Redcliffe?”

Surana snapped his fingers. It didn’t work with gauntlets on but it was more the action than the sound that was important. A small circle of white light was balanced on his index finger for a moment, then he closed his hand and the magic faded.

“Oh, do you mean…” Connor couldn’t remember the name for it, but he pulled up his right hand and snapped his finger: one white ball on his index finger, followed by a red one at the knuckle.

Surana snapped and conjured the white and red lights, but his middle finger was out too with a yellow light at the point. Connor took his turn and conjured white, red, yellow, and green. Next it was white, red, yellow, green, and purple. White, red, yellow, green, purple, blue. White, red, yellow, green, purple, blue, orange.

It kept going: two lights per finger, one on the thumb, five on the palm. The lights could go in any position or order, it was all about copying exactly what the person before you did. Jylan had been _wildly_ good at it.

“No!” Hawke shouted behind them. “Maker’s Teeth, not that stupid game!” Surana laughed.

“It’s an important training technique,” the Commander admonished gently.

“Sod that, it was hours and hours of my sisters snapping their fingers at each other instead of going to sleep.” Connor thought about this. He looked back at Hawke, then back at the Commander, then back at Hawke again, and smiled.

“ _Don’t._ ” Hawke growled.

“All blues, sir?” Meaning only lights in shades of blue. “And if you win, um,” There was always a wager involved and usually for something stupid. “I’ll carry Nathaniel’s water on the run tomorrow.” Surana looked surprised but intrigued by this potentially disastrous bet.

“All blues.” He agreed, and Hawke groaned. “And if you win, then Nathaniel isn’t allowed to sing.”

“Done.”

 _“Hey!_ ”

 

 


	14. Through Warmth and Rain

 

 

Travelling was a world in and unto itself. By the end of Connor’s first week on the road the Grey Wardens had pushed over a hundred miles from Skyhold, running and riding north-east from the Frostback peaks down along the ocean-like expanse of Lake Calenhad’s north shore. Had they gone hard on horseback the entire way they could have comfortably made another fifty miles, but the Company just laughed at Nathaniel’s expense as if it wasn’t Connor he was actually training to run long distances.

One day of carrying double the water weight while running had made the next morning almost easy by comparison, and the next day, again, a little better. His improvement levelled off after that, but he still felt it and was aware of the fact that he could run further on the seventh day, and maybe a little bit faster on the eighth. The days and the miles passed by and it was both a little bit better and a little bit harder every time the horses passed them in the early light. Training each evening with staff and spell didn’t help his energy levels very much, but he did feel a bit more confident that he would at least hit the Darkspawn once before they inevitably killed him.

On the 9th day they reached West Hill. It usually took Inquisiton scouts between five or six days to cover the same distance but there had been the unforeseen rest day and again, of course, Connor’s slow feet.

The city was the first Ferelden link in the chain of trading posts and cities between Orlais and the Amaranthine Coast. The Imperial Highway continued North East towards Highever, Amaranthine, and eventually Denerim further to the east. South of West Hill stood what remained of Kinloch Hold and the central Bannorn. Finally, back the way they’d come stood Orzammar and the Orlesian Empire.

Commander Surana warned them ahead of time that they had no business at West Hill itself, but it was on the way. They’d suffered no violent episodes and thanks to Nathaniel’s bow even Connor still had most of his rations from Skyhold, so they did not in the strictest sense _need_ to stop. But their destination was very clearly on the opposite side of West Hill from the direction they approached it, and a town was a town. There was simply no good reason for them to sleep out on the road when West Hill appeared in the afternoon haze. By evening they’d reached it. It just didn’t make sense not to stay the night.

The ‘hill’ part of West Hill was crowned with the nigh-abandoned towers which had once protected the Storm Coast from marauding pirates. The scent of the sea carried across the low, ramshackle settlement of stone and timber hutches built in the shadows of the towers. There was no real port worth mentioning at West Hill due to the sheer cliffs which fell into the Waking Sea under the mighty fortress. King Marric had lost a terrifying battle at West Hill during the Orlesian Occupation over forty years ago. Connor’s grandfather Rendorn Guerrin had died in it.

Workshops and caravanserai made up the bulk of West Hill’s sprawl. Farms and pastures were its main feature, with store houses and stables cropping up eagerly the closer to the city square they came. City was probably being a bit too liberal with the meaning however: it was closer to the size of Redcliffe than Denerim.

“Ho there, travellers.” They saw the torches and arms before the guard hailed them with a raised hand. It was a small, makeshift checkpoint where the wild road from the moorland reached the fringe of the settlement. Connor had been listening to Zevran and Oghren trade dirty chokes, riding just behind them and the Commander before Surana called the company to a halt.

“Good evening, guardsman.” Surana opened politely.

“And to you, Serrah. This is a formidable company you lead.” A question without a question, but at least it was a simple one Surana was comfortable answering.

“We are Grey Wardens come to spend a warm night in West Hill before continuing north to address the Darkspawn on the Storm Coast.” There. Why they were here and how long they would stay. The guard’s voice brightened with the news.

“I’ll not delay you long then, Serrah. Grey Wardens are always welcome at West Hill.” He said with a respectful tone. “But as per Bann Franderel’s orders I must ask: do any mages travel with you?”

Connor’s head came up.

His was not the only reaction. Oghren’s horse stomped a foot and its head came up proudly, chest out, with Zevran’s doing the same. Issan was only a fraction behind them and Connor heard the other mounts bringing up the rear of the train mimicking. In the darkening night it was a concerning sound. Connor remembered his anxious, unspoken question from days ago now: how much trouble had Templars dared to give the Hero of Ferelden?

“I am one such.” Surana answered, and he made it sound like nothing at all. Connor couldn’t see the guard’s face clearly over Zevran’s shoulder, but he did see the man lift a nervous hand to the rest of the company.

“I- I meant no disrespect to you or your Grey Wardens, Serrah.”

“You’ve not offended me yet, Guardsman.” Surana charitably told him. “How can one of Ferelden’s Magi serve Bann Franderel?”

“The Bann’s men have been given a message from the Arl of Redcliffe.” The guardsman said, and Connor’s lungs clamped down tight and would not breathe. “To be given to any human mage bearing the name of Connor.” The feeling crawled outward from his chest, gripping his shoulders tight and squeezing his legs uncomfortably.

“I am no human,” Surana continued, unfazed. “But the Grey Wardens come across all kinds and that’s not such an uncommon name. What is the Arl’s message?”

“Simply put, Serrah, it is a summons for the mage to return to Redcliffe castle. Can’t tell you for what reason, but if he were a criminal then I doubt the Arl would just be asking.” Why would his uncle want Connor to go back to Recliffe? After the way they’d last parted and how badly Connor had…

“Are there any knights of Redcliffe here in West Hill, guardsman?” Surana asked.

“Not anymore that I know of.” Was the answer. “The message came a few days ago.”

“Have you any news of the Storm Coast?” He continued.

“Only the bad sort.” The guard sounded a bit more at ease as the talk moved from mages to darkspawn, of all things. “Trade still flows from Highever and there have been no reports of Darkspawn making attacks on the Imperial Highway, but the fact that they’ve been seen at all is troubling. It’s good to know there are Grey Wardens in the area.”

The Commander gave a soft laugh.

“We’ll make our stop here in town a short one then. Where can my men get a decent bed for the night?”

The soldier stepped back and swung and arm down one of the crooked streets behind him, barely visible save for a crooked, glowing lantern.

“Storm Crow inn’s got the best mutton chops for the price, and if it’s bread and cider you want then the cook there always has a hot loaf ready.”

It shocked Connor how quickly the fear of having his name echoing across the Bannorn was drowned out by the description of food. Something to drink that wasn’t water or the dragon’s piss in Hawke’s flask. Bread that wasn’t ten days old and rolled in dirt. His mouth was swimming as the Commander bade the guardsman a safe watch and led the company down the dark lane.

Storm Crow was a messy, dirty tavern. Filth on the walls, a dirt floor strewn with hay, and persistent musk that blistered off every scrap of linen and fabric in the crooked building. But the warm central room smelled of the promised fresh bread, the fire was roaring and warm as a gentle rain began spitting outside, and the cider was crisp, tart, and cheap.

The only thing Connor saw of money was the way Surana vanished into the inn ahead of the party while they dealt with their horses and the stables. When they came inside the business had already been settled and the Commander had removed his gauntlets and set his staff against the back of his chair, a long table by one of the fireplaces commandeered for their evening. He had no idea how much accommodations for five Grey Wardens, an assassin, and a recruited mage cost, but it certainly felt like they got their money’s worth as soon as the food began to arrive.

The mutton leg was thick with ropes of dripping fat, steaming flesh dark with mint and rosemary. The bread came in loaves the size of his head with herbs thrown in the dough and whipped butter by the bowlful arrived for their enjoyment. Connor had watched the company take their meals patiently every morning and night, but there was a particular veracity behind Nathaniel and Zevran’s duel over a considerably large hunk of warm bread. The rolls themselves were golden and hot from the oven, perhaps the only clean things in the entire inn. Their crusts came apart like some fragrant flower, chewy and firm and just right for sopping up the mutton’s juices, and the white insides were soft and swallowed whole pads of thick white butter. Who needed jam when the butter tasted _this good?_

Connor had always been told that Elves were tricksters by nature, so he watched quietly when Surana’s fingers magically snatched and rolled a succulent pear across the table into his open palm. That he pulled the fruit right out from between Bouclier and Hawke who were arguing over it just made things better.

“You don’t even like pears!” Hawke railed as soon as he noticed.

“I like settling arguments.” The Commander’s voice was innocent, and then he made a bitter, twisted face at the taste in his mouth.

“See!”

“If this is how animated you are after every little slight, Hawke, I can see why he does it.” Bouclier was more amicable about the whole thing, perhaps because Hawke was simply _not_. His temper tantrum even meant he missed out on a serving of sliced apples when the cored fruit was presented to the table, and he howled at the injustice of it all.

The Wardens fought the hardest over the bread, butter, and fruit. Thanks to Nathaniel’s bow there was no shortage of meat as they travelled, though it was often gamey and lacked the rich salts rubbed into their meal tonight- herbs could be gathered, dried, and carried very easily. But salt was expensive. Salt was heavy. Salt didn’t like getting rained on either. Butter didn’t keep well when travelling and had to be left behind, which meant the rich, salted, heavy white spread presented to their table by the bowlful was the focus of several loud disagreements. Nathaniel even went so far as to take one empty bowl away and scrape it out with a crust of bread, just to make sure none of it went to waste.

Bread they had, but it was only called that to make them feel better about eating it. Hard, dusty bricks of sawdust and grain. Good enough to go with roast rabbit and water, but just as likely to be covered in dirt and taste like the leather it was wrapped in. Whatever Connor thought of Orlesians, Bouclier was clearly a Warden first and foremost. She had absolutely no qualms or hesitations about using an elbow, a knife, or her bare hands to snatch up anything from the spread that she desired or felt she may have to fight for. She said she would arm-wrestle Zevran for the last of the mutton and the assassin kindly refused, with a bit of flattery on the side.

Fruit, finally, was something most anyone would jostle for anyways. Ferelden’s apples and pears were just coming into season, and her wild berries and heaps of white cream graced the table for only a few seconds before immediately vanishing. The only one who wanted nothing of the cream was Oghren, who was several pints ahead of the rest of them and loudly announced his approval for the cider every time he called for a refill. Connor quite liked the cider himself too, it wasn’t as heavy as beer and had a better taste than Skyhold’s ale. He dared not keep pace with anyone, but enjoyed his pint just the same.

Baths were taken as the hot water was changed and readied for each person. Hawke gulped the last of his cider and abandoned his hand of Diamond Back when it was his turn, returning in a plain black tunic and britches a bit later with a comfortable, sleepy look on his face as he watched the cards circle the table. The Commander lost interest in the game after his own bath and retreated to the end of the table closest to the fire, the long stem of a wooden pipe in his mouth. He shared the smoke with Nathaniel when the hunter took to the fire to dry his long hair and re-braid it, and Oghren proved that being heavily intoxicated was no obstacle to proper dwarven beard-weaving.

Bouclier’s wild hair required she play Wicked Grace one-handed, using her fingers to cleverly spin the light brown strands into the hangings twists from before. Zevran declared himself tired of catching Bouclier and Connor’s every sloppy attempt to cheat at a game which _required_ cheating to play properly, and left to get the dust of the road off his skin.

Finally, full of food and fire-side warmth, Connor got to clean up too.

For some reason he’d expected more than just the bottom half of a barrel that had once held apples, but the water was hot and fresh and the lack of soap didn’t bother him. His entire body had ached for a hot soak since leaving Skyhold and this was as close as he was going to get: it felt heavenly.

His bed for the night was a pile of firm lambswool blankets over a wooden pallet, and he had to listen to Hawke snore from the pallet next to him, but he challenged the King himself to a better night’s rest.

The next morning the company left West Hill in high spirits- almost as if they weren’t riding out to meet Darkspawn, of all things! Connor forgot his anxious worries right up until they rode out past a checkpoint not unlike the one from the night before. Then it came back, and no amount of fresh food or card-games could settle the sudden wave of nerves and chills.

Connor rode out of West Hill rather than stagger behind the company- common sense and saving face smoothly rolled into one. Connor hadn’t asked why, the answer was probably the same as it had been when they’d left Skyhold: seven horses but two men on foot would look remarkably stupid, wouldn’t it? So instead they rode, and even the horses seemed chipper for a warm night in the stables as they kicked up to a steady trot to the north east. The Imperial Highway was tempting but its high vantage probably wouldn’t touch the ground again until Highever and their destination was between the two major settlements.

Connor had learned over the last week and a half that beyond having Commander Surana at the head of the train, there was no real formation or order they needed to follow. Two-by-two was best for not taking up the whole of any given road, but Connor could push ahead without making any fuss in their loose ranks.

“Um-” But just because he was _capable_ of it didn’t make things _easy_. “Warden Commander?”

The mage ahead of him didn’t even swivel in the saddle.

“Good morning, Recruit.” The company was following well-used road of packed dirt and gravel, patches of mud and dew-covered bushes hinting at the rain Connor had forgotten about last night. The sky was grey and cloudy overhead, and the wind smelled cool and damp, but nothing was coming down on them just yet.

“Sir, um-” Connor wasn’t riding quite abreast with the Hero of Ferelden, lagging behind him far enough that he was talking more to his horse’s flanks than the Commander’s face. “About last night…”

Unbidden and embarrassingly, Issan lengthened her stride to come properly to the side of the horse she was following. She was no doubt used to riding abreast with the other horses when Connor was busy talking to their riders, and he wasn’t good enough in the saddle to correct her without yanking on the reins and probably getting himself thrown to the ground. He no doubt looked like a complete idiot, wobbling awkwardly atop his horse trying to mentally communicate the words ‘ _no, bad horse_ ,’ to her, but once he was there it was clear the Commander’s eyes were focused on the road ahead of them, not Connor’s stupidity.

South of West Hill had been the moorland- muddy and wet with runoff from the Frostbacks in early spring, but with the Imperial Highway keeping them dry and safe for quick travel. Now they’d left the mountainous scrubland and the flowing hills behind and were moving quickly into territory with more green about it. Farmland stretched around them on either side of the road, but it was broken up by tall thickets of wild trees and half-mile stretches of bramble-laden brooks and bushy undergrowth. Surana was watching, scanning, but made better conversation than Connor knew what to do with.

“There’s no shame in enjoying a bit of ale in town, Connor.” He said, which threw him off because he’d had cider and- “You didn’t seem drunk to me at all.”  Connor floundered, he drowned, he expired with nothing but a weak gurgle to his name. He hadn’t been drunk and the crooked nature of Surana’s smile didn’t register right away for him either. The Commander must have seen his distress at some point though, because he put his smirk away and nodded.

“My humour might be out of touch. Are you worried about the news from Redcliffe?” Maker _bless_ him for knowing what this was about.

“Yes sir.” The words felt heavy with relief. At least Surana hadn’t forgotten.

“What does it make you want to do most?”

“Ask you what you think it means, sir.” Surana regarded him very seriously for a moment, their horses trotting lightly beneath them, in sync, with the company following and chattering along behind them.

“When did you last speak to your family?” He asked.

“Just after the explosion at the conclave.” Connor explained. “My uncle Teagan and I met in Redcliffe, but I’d already been there for some time.”

“By your tone, I’d say it went poorly?”

“Very, sir.” The memory made him squirm, but there had been a lot going on and much of what Connor had said had probably deserved to be heard. At least, he hoped so anyways.

“What about before that?” Surana asked, his voice surprisingly light with curiosity. “Throughout the war, or while you were part of the circle?”

“There were a few letters from my mother in the beginning.” Connor admitted- confided, really. “But they stopped before I’d finished my first year.” Jylan had readily accused the Templars of interfering, but that didn’t account for the fact that he’d received letters at all. “I was never allowed to write back.” _That_ part, at least, had been the Templars’ fault.

“No, they wouldn’t have liked that.” The Commander said, but it felt like an idle comment, something just politely thrown out when it was his turn to speak. Connor wanted to fall back and excuse himself, let the Warden Commander get out of the awkward conversation, but he hadn’t answered Connor’s question and he didn’t know who else in the company he could dare approach it with. Even if the Hero of Ferelden hadn’t spared any actual thought for Connor beyond a single letter to the First Enchanter, he’d still been at Redcliffe castle. He’d still saved Connor’s family.

In the midst of all his fretting the Warden Commander started speaking again.

“The last news I heard of House Guerrin, your father was still doing well and your mother remained ever at his side.” The news came suddenly, but as a relief. Connor’s family had not been directly on his mind or allowed to rest there with any comfort for a very long time. “He’s started to show and feel more of his age of course, but is healthy beyond that.”

“Do my parents still live in Denerim?” Connor asked, realizing that he was almost as hungry for this as he’d been for the bread last night. Surana nodded as the company mounted a high hill and came down between twisted, wild young trees budded with early spring green.

“He was made Arl of Denerim by King Alistair after passing Redcliffe to your uncle.” This Connor knew, but he didn’t dare interrupt the Warden. “In truth your mother does more for the city, but you have to keep in mind your father’s advanced age. He spends most of his time at court advising the King.”

“I- it’s good to know that they’re both doing well.”

“Perhaps they desire to know the same of you.”

“But why Redcliffe then?” Connor asked, taking hold of one of the buzzing flies pestering him. “Shouldn’t they have called me to Denerim instead?”

“I wish I had the answers, Connor.” He sounded sincere, and there was less of that hollow nothingness in his voice. Surana was still distracted, eyes following the twisted arms of the trees extending over their heads, the roughly scarred end of his ear shining red in the dull daylight. It felt like rain was coming. “But all I have are more questions. What do you want to do?”

“I don’t know.”

“You may have to choose between continuing on to the Storm Coast or answering your uncle’s summons to Redcliffe.”

“No, sir, I don’t.”

“You don’t?”

Connor rolled his bottom lip into his mouth, stubbornness flaring in his gut. It aggravated the fiery burn of his magic where it was gnawing at his insides like always, the perpetual heartburn of mana.

“Well, we’re nearly there for one, sir. You said so last night.” A day and a half at most to the coast, and most of that would be spent tracking down the exact location of the Inquisition’s established camp. “Redcliffe is at least another week south so I gain nothing by turning around now. And I chose this, sir. You offered me a chance to join the Grey Wardens- Redcliffe will just have to wait.”

“And you’re alright with that?”

“Do you _want_ me to quit?” Connor’s sour tone scared him. He wanted to shrivel up and blow away in the wind. “I mean- I- the company won’t just turn around for one person, I’d have to quit, go off on my own, or-”

“Connor,” Connor stared down hard at Issan’s reins where they were wound over his hands repeatedly, not tight to the bridle, but twisted through his fingers.

“I shouldn’t have said it that way, I’m sorry, Commander.” Using that tone of voice on the Hero of Ferelden of _all people_ …

The Warden Commander swung a hand out gently, a sign for peace, and Connor had to suffer under the grey sky with nothing but the horse’s clopping hooves and the far away lilt of Nathaniel’s voice to break the silence. The horses travelled for what felt like miles before Surana spoke again, though it couldn’t have been more than a few minutes.

“I don’t want you vanishing in the middle of the night.” The Commander told him, and although he was kind there was a hardness about it that made sure Connor committed the words to memory. “Or acting out because you feel like you’re being dragged across the countryside. If you travel with us, Guerrin, you do so because you’ve made a committed choice. There is a time and a way of changing your mind later, but I will not tolerate surprises along the way.”

“Yes, sir.” Connor, like a scolded mabari, weakly acknowledged. “I understand.” But it- and then… where he found the gall to ask he did not know. “No one would actually do that though, take off in the middle of the night, would they?”

Mistake.

Surana’s eyes crackled. Not with magic, just emotion, but it was the right flashfire of raw sentiment that told Connor this was _not_ to be discussed.

“She did.” He said sharply. “And I _won’t_ tolerate it again.”

“Yes, sir.” Connor finally pulled on Issan’s reins. “Thank you.” Not tight enough to startle the horse, but she dropped her pace and fell back smoothly.

The rest of the ride was misery.

Connor dared not utter another word while the road was bright enough for travel. He felt like an impossible fool now and there was no shaking it. For the price he’d paid by having Commander Surana look at him in that angry way, having an answer to his family’s sudden question didn’t seem worth it. Fretting about uncle Teagan far away in Redcliffe had been much easier to bear than stirring the Hero of Ferelden’s immediate ire.

The fact that he knew in some small, insignificant way, that the Warden Commander had been set off by the subject and not Connor himself didn’t help matters. Perhaps it should have, but no, no it really made no difference to him. He’d still been the one to bring it up, meaning it was still wholly his fault that the Commander was angry. Did that mean he should apologize? But what if he tried to just as Surana was moving on and he wound up simply irritating him all over again? Was it better to just let things blow over? But what if the Commander expected a proper apology?

Connor’s frets ran along under the darkening sky. The clouds were rolling overhead and the cold, windy air felt wet. A few days ago he had recovered a pair of sturdy gloves from the bottom of his saddle bags, and there was a cloak tucked away in there as well. Unless it started raining at least he was still warm under his fur-lined robe, but the clouds were filled with shadows, and the wind whispered of a storm on the approach.

As the road wound from remote pastures into steadily denser forest, the chatter in the company simmered down considerably. Ferelden did not ease gently into the Waking Sea, instead she stood proud and tall with her weather-beaten coast on guard against the churning waters. For Connor who had lived most of his life on the gentle, lowland slopes of Lake Calenhad, it was intimidating to know that at any point now on the other side of these granite mounds and towering trees, there would be water that went on clear across to the Free Marches.

Water began to drip, not from the sky, but from the trees that had increased in size and number. Their branches reached over the beaten road, shaking fat drops of water down on the passing company. The gravel crunching under horse hooves hid ancient bricks and cobbles from ages long past. The roadwork beneath the years of grit was well made with few puddles or patches of wet filth for their horses to navigate, the rest of it was smooth and even regardless of how steep the inclines became. The road twisted and began to spiral, climbing along ridges hedged in greenery, winding down along ravines.

They routinely made camp an hour before sunset, but with the cloud cover that time was difficult to gauge, and as the road grew dim there was no sign of them stopping. Finally, Commander Surana pulled his staff free from his saddle’s straps and wedged the end of it into the stirrup next to his foot, the red crystal glowing like a beacon as the gloom descended. Connor struggled to get his own staff out, but managed the feat and channelled a breath of intent into the rod- igniting the green serpentstone crystal caged at the head.

“Maker, I hope we find them before it gets much darker.” Hawke complained to his left, and Connor was nervous enough about riding in the dark to finally open up to the prospect of talking. They knew they were looking for the Inquisition’s established camp here on the coast because that was where they’d find the scouts who knew the area best. They also knew that the Commander had a map that should lead them to said camp, but…

“Slow, men!” Commander Surana’s voice interrupted before Connor could actually say anything to Hawke. He tugged firmly on Issan’s reins as the company quickly dropped their pace by half.

Hawke swore next to him, giving him another start. Connor watched in open confusion as the warrior worked fast with the straps and belts in front of him, freeing his helmet from the saddle and quickly dropping it over his head. He gave himself a smack on the forehead to make sure the winged helm came down properly, and Connor’s eyes had a hard time focusing on what part of his face was visible through the wide slats and holes. But then he- there was- were his eyes _glowing?_

“What-?”

Ahead of them, Bouclier’s head vanished under her own helmet, and she pulled her shield around onto her arm, adjusting it carefully to cover both her body and most of her leg on her left side. Oghren was behind them and he growled something profane, metal clanking as he too put his helmet on.

“Connor,” Nathaniel’s voice startled him badly, but it was a little worse hearing weapons come free from harnesses and slide out into the cold night. He looked to his right and yes, _yes_ , Nathaniel Howe’s normally dark eyes were _glowing_. “Keep your wits about you, we may need your magic.”

“Why are you doing that?” Connor wheezed, breathless. Glowing eyes was not something _anyone_ had told him to watch out for.

“Darkspawn.” Hawke answered from the other side, and the mage felt every spell he’d ever learned fall clean out of his head. “Might be on the surface, might be under our feet, won’t know for a few more minutes.”

“Lovely.”

“If I had to put money on it, I’d say under.” Hawke continued, giving Nathaniel an out as the other Warden quickly cantered ahead of them, heading for the commander’s beacon. “Came up too quickly and we aren’t under attack yet.”

“They can attack _that fast_?” Connor felt his voice shake and break up around the words.

“That’s why I said they’re probably under us.” That was absolutely not a better way of looking at things.

“Will they stay down there?” Connor asked again, trying not to feel quite so terrified of the two softly glowing lights of Hawke’s eyes. They weren’t flashing at him, it was more like the subtle glow of polished pennies, the burnished shimmer of copper or the facetted light of a gemstone. But Hawke’s eyes weren’t _that_ blue, and eyes weren’t supposed to be visible inside a dark helmet.

“Ready your magic, Guerrin, we’re about to find out.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Inquisition said Connor’s grandfather’s name was also Connor. The Stolen Throne said his name was Rendorn. Rendorn Guerrin was a character with presence and plenty of speaking lines in the book while Connor Guerrin (Sr?) is a codex entry in the games. Rendorn it is!
> 
> A large detour with the Dalish was removed from Apprentice, but thankfully those characters got to return in the sequel, Disgrace!


	15. The Storm Coast

Most Fereldans didn’t like Darkspawn. Connor wasn’t all that unique for holding them in particularly low regard, but he felt special for it tonight. He was utterly convinced that he, Connor Guerrin, Mage of the College of Enchanters, hated Darkspawn more than any other person ever in the whole entire world.

The Darkspawn did not attack them in the middle of the night on a dark trail winding towards the Storm Coast. They were underground as Hawke had guessed, and Warden-Constable Oghren grumbled bitterly about how it meant the Deep Road’s weren’t all that deep here.

“One good shake or blast,” he said, rumbling away under his helmet as his horse bounced him in the cold, dark rain that had started falling, “And the caves’ll open right up. Inquisitor mentioned a crossroads or old dwarven port of some kind in the area, so either the Ancestors tunnelled a lot closer to the surface to reach the water or the stone they went through’s gone and worn down over the ages.”

“How do we fix that?” Connor tried to ask him.

“Y’ don’t. You just deal with it instead.” Bouclier was happier to try and get more information from the Constable as they were slowly soaked through with rain and left still aimlessly following the road. “Explosives, Captain. You get a whole load of ‘em up from the mining caste and you blast the sodding tunnels to bits.”

Connor wasn’t terribly eager to find any of them carrying a bunch of explosives around to hurl at Darkspawn. His curiosity about Zevran’s bandolier had died out rather quickly after one evening: he’d overheard he and Nathaniel laugh about how anything hunted with arrows dipped in _that kind_ of poison wouldn’t be safe to eat afterwards. The rumours of Qunari gatlock were unsettling and Connor had no real idea where the Inquisition or the Grey Wardens would have acquired it anyways. Dwarven explosives were by far the most common, but raw lyrium wasn’t very high on Connor’s list of favourite things.

That night they rode steadily through the wet darkness until, finally, they heard friendly voices and found themselves welcomed by soldiers of the Inquisition. The scouts approached them first and guided them up a steep path towards torchlight and a large fire burning in spite of the rain.

Much of the business from that point on was done with no need for Connor’s presence or input. He was the unqualified junior member of a legendary company of Grey Wardens, and his energy was simply better spent ensuring that their horses were properly cared for and arrangements for the wardens themselves settled in the camp. Besides, after a long day’s ride and this deep into the night, there wasn’t much else they could expect to do with themselves except perhaps eat and then fall asleep. Even Connor avoided the training gauntlet by virtue of everyone around him being soggy and tired.

The Inquisition was generous. The Grey Wardens had brought small tent kits with them but the soldiers on the storm coast had plenty to spare which were already set-up and arguably much larger and better made. Connor hadn’t spent the night in a warden tent yet, but Bouclier had explained that they were only meant for keeping the rain and snow off your immediate person, so a good wind would find its way through without issue. Who exactly had the strength to lug another fifty or a hundred _pounds_ of extra fabric for every tent in the company? The Inquisition, apparently.

The Grey Wardens slept three to a tent, except the Commander of course, who was given his own as was only proper. Hawke charmingly told Captain Bouclier that he would throw Connor from the camp’s high hillside if he tried anything funny during the night, and Andraste help him the mage just could not let that go.

“Why would I even _consider_ that?” Connor protested, wrapped up in his blanket and in the dead centre of the tent, Bouclier on one side and Hawke on the other. Thankfully, he was too annoyed for hurt feelings, and thus kept his voice down in the darkness. “How stupid do you think I am?”

“Why would I even _need_ your help?” Bouclier echoed, too amused for offense. The rain covered her words very well, so Connor wasn’t quite sure Hawke could even hear her. For himself, he felt her laughing and realized he didn’t have enough space to wiggle one way or the other between the two Wardens.

“I should just switch with Oghren.” Connor complained, folding his arms under the blanket. “And then the three of you can fall asleep talking about the best way to hit stuff.”

“You could,” Hawke countered, and even if Connor couldn’t see it he knew he could hear the Warden smiling. “But then you’d have to listen to Zevran and Nathaniel discuss skinning and poisoning techniques all night. Nasty stuff. Did you know that if you hold a rabbit’s ears one in each hand and pull-”

“Maker’s _breath_ ,” Bouclier swore, covering Connor’s own oath.

“All mages ever talked about was which Templar couldn’t pull off the dress properly!” He interrupted, closing his eyes and trying to shake off the mental image of tomorrow night’s dinner with its ears in Nathaniel’s hands.

“It’s not a dress.” Hawke grumbled back at him, suddenly dower.

“And Andraste was a dwarf.” Connor wanted to stick his tongue out. He heard Bouclier trying to smother her laughter again next to him.

“I thought they wore trousers underneath?” The Orlesian Warden snickered.

“Not in the Ferelden Circle, they did not.”

“Excellent.” Hawke complained. “Pantsless Templars. Exactly what I wanted to fall asleep thinking about.” There was a tug and rustle in the dark before Hawke finished rolling over, away from them. When he was done, he huffed, and Connor let himself smile a little.

The chatter under the rain petered out after that. The tent stayed cool and almost cold for most of the night, but sleeping in the middle wasn’t as bad as he’d feared. Connor slept well until dawn.

The camp woke with the sun and he was close among them. They’d arrived with little time to spare for planning and detailing, but a new day with the storm blown out overhead meant it was time to start. Connor was curious but not surprised when he saw Nathaniel come trudging up the encampment’s steep hill with an Inquisition scout, the two of them covered in mud and stray branches from the wild hills around them. They must have left before first light to be back already.

Connor had seen very few of the Inquisition’s well-known camps. He’d rarely, if ever, left Skyhold for any reason, but he knew from what the injured had told him that camps usually hosted between ten to at most fifty Inquisition soldiers. Connor _had_ been taken along for the final push into the Arbour Wilds searching for Corypheus’ ancient temple, but he didn’t consider those camps the same as this one.

They did feel quite similar though. There were many, many soldiers about. Far more than there were tents available, and suddenly he was forced to reconsider what the generosity last night had really been about. He counted only twenty-odd members of the Inquisition at first, but on a quick run to the other end of camp he found almost three dozen horses in a pen he had not seen in the dark, and dozens of leaning field tents that were not a part of the regular compound. There must have been over sixty armed soldiers about, and Connor didn’t know how to relay this back to Commander Surana before it came time for the actual meeting.

A table was dried off from last night and a large map unfurled. Oghren made sure Connor had a place to stand so he could see clear over the dwarf’s head at the information before them. It was a highly detailed map of the surrounding terrain, similar to the one Surana had shown them days ago, but this one was much, much bigger. The Inquisition Officer in charge of the map began explaining things quickly.

“We’re glad to have you, Grey Wardens, the situation turned dire just two days ago.” She explained, scattering red sand from a vial onto the paths and roads marked on the map, she detailed the highest concentrations of Darkspawn sightings and attacks. By the time she was done, the southern part of the map was all but overrun. “Inquisition camps are here, here, and here, but the southernmost point was overrun, and our people have retreated here, into the Blades of Hessarian camp.” She marked the location with a small clay pyramid.   “They’re the Inquisition’s allies and have a strong foothold in the region, this is their fortified camp. The rest of our people, as you can plainly see, have retreated here to this camp where we are now.”

She took out three metal figures of the Inquisition’s crest- the burning sword and watching eye, and placed them on the map as she spoke. They were north of most of the activity, the other two camps she marked but then laid the tokens down on their sides, signalling their fallen nature.

“These,” she continued, showing a palm full of bloodstone cubes before she began to place them, “Are the known Deep Roads entrances.”

The first, according to the scale on the map, came up only a mile away from where they were standing now, downhill and up the beach into the hills north of them. The next went several miles south, but topography visible through the sand meant the hills around it fed directly down onto the Hessarian’s camp. The next was further south again, but here the land curved the opposite way so that again, the first place the creatures would go once they broke the surface was _north_ , to flank the camp again. The fourth and fifth were both clustered on the coast itself, further west than the other three and many miles south of the first, but still within five miles of the two southern openings. The map didn’t give much indication of what the terrain was like down there, but if they wandered the wrong way then, of course, the Darkspawn would overrun the Hessarians from their only open side.

“It’s no Blight,” the Officer clarified, “I remember that too well to get mixed up now. These Darkspawn aren’t smart or resourceful enough to bring fire or magic to the fight, and they roam in scattered bands between the trees, but there are more and more of them with every passing day, and once they hear the sound of one fight somewhere they all come rushing in for the kill. We lost a lot of good people just to surprise attacks and we won’t let the Blades go the same way. Their encampment has high wooden barricades around it but we no longer have a line of communication with them. If we don’t get them out of there soon they’re either going to run out of supplies or break under the pressure. We called out and the Grey Wardens answered, Warden Commander, you have our full support.”

“Nathaniel.” Commander Surana spoke, his wide elven eyes watching the map and absorbing the information from it, half-lidded as he read. He was brushing one gloved finger back and forth under his lips, golden staff hanging from his back with its serpents twisted about and holding their facetted red gem closely. His armour looked well after days on the road and the dawn light made the silverite ribbons running through the tunic sparkle, the rearing griffon on his breastplate shimmering proudly. “Report on what you saw.”

Nathaniel nodded and stepped up to the map, looking down at it and shaking his head after a moment’s contemplation.

“I’ve got a headache from them all,” the Senior Warden grumbled. He plucked a vial of white sand off the table, uncorked it, and starting at the north part of the map he began to liberally scatter the dust. “Above and below ground, it’s a swamp of activity. The closer to the Blades, the more congested: they’ve sensed a meal and they want it, badly. But as the Inquisition claims it’s no blight and this is no vanguard force. The Hurlocks we spotted were small and spindly things by Darkspawn standards, and if there are any ogres or alphas about then they’re hidden down in the Deep Roads. Not a whiff of magic in the area either, thank the Maker. I’ve had my fill of Emissaries.”

“Forgive my intrusion,” Zevran spoke up, standing just off behind Commander Surana, but close enough to listen and observe. “But if there is an opening so close to us then why are the Grey Wardens not doing that nervous thing you always do when there are Darkspawn at hand?”

Surana looked at Zevran, then eyed Nathaniel. The other warden was smiling.

“Because the Inquisition’s got an iron clad perimeter around camp.” Nathaniel reported, sprinkling praise as he went. “Nothing gets within half a mile of these tents without three pairs of eyes on it, two to land quiet shots, one to report back here. Tight and strong, excellent formation.”

“I’d wondered why they’d dropped off.” Hawke commented thoughtfully. “So with only one door here and the other four clustered in the south…”

“And with the promise of fresh food and new broodmothers, the Darkspawn keep feeding off their own excitement and attacking the Blades.” Bouclier finished where Hawke had been tending the discussion. “It’s not a full strategy, but it’s more than we should expect grunts to put together on their own.”

“Meaning the Alphas, if any,” the Commander summed up, leaning his hands down on the map and looking over it. “Are no doubt under the Hessarian encampment, driving the weaker spawn up to the surface. It’s also safe to assume then that these four caves are connected to the same dwarven compound, possibly an old thaig that once serviced the port mouth you said was not far down the coastline.”

“If they’re _under_ the encampment then what’s stopping them from just forcing their way straight up behind the defenses?” The Inquisition officer asked, and she looked remarkably pale now that the situation had been given even more detail. The word _‘broodmother’_ had sucked some of the warmth from the dawn.

“The Dwarves built the Deep Roads when they were still an empire, so they’re far more grand than what you might be thinking of.” Commander Surana explained. “Even minor branches can have ceilings upwards of thirty feet high, and a thaig would dig itself several hundred feet down at least. Without an Emissary to lead them they wouldn’t be smart enough to try tunnelling anywhere anyways.”

“Have I mentioned how much I hate Emissaries?” Nathaniel threw the comment out with enough disgust to make his point. Commander Surana didn’t take him up on the jab, he was busy looking at the map still, letting it hold his attention for a few more moments before he stood up straight again.

“I’m pleased we have so much to go on, and see no reason to deviate from the original plan. Oghren, if you would?”

“I sodding will,” the Constable grunted, planting his heavy hands on the table, gauntlets catching the light. “Alright, open your ears ‘cause I’m not going over this twice. Even with the Inquisition’s forces here at the coast this is a lot of darkspawn to clear out. But they’re weak and they’re stupid, the hardest part’ll be foiling the generals plans down below. We start here.” Oghren beat his fist once on the table and then jabbed two fingers hard over the entrance a mile north of them.

“Make a big hoot an’ hollerin’ distraction. Let them get runners escaping back down for help, blow the caverns deep and loud so they can hear it from here to Orzammar if need be. We’ve got the goods for it and then some so we’ll make ‘em count. Once this entrance is sealed up tighter than a nug’s arse we can leave it alone and focus on the Hessarian’s camp. The plan is that the Alphas’ll go off and send their minions north to check out the noise, and that’ll take the heat off the encampment. As soon as the tunnel blows we get our asses down south and rout the leaderless bastards where they stand, rig up tunnels two and three that flanked it and blow em. There may be a real fight at the last two depending on how quick we get there, but by that point it shouldn’t be anything the Grey Wardens of Amaranthine can’t handle. Any questions?”

“Are we certain this will work?” Someone in Inquisition green asked.

“Nothing is certain in the Deep Roads.” Commander Surana wisely cautioned. “The absolute worst case is that the explosions only open more holes in the thaig, but what’s more reasonable is that we never realize that the path between the first entrance and the other four aren’t connected, so the Darkspawn will have nowhere to go to investigate. If that happens then instead of cutting a quick and dirty path to the Hessarian encampment we may end up summoning the whole hoard, Alphas and all, to attack us.” His announcement was greeted with deep silence. This seemed to surprise him, because after a short pause he continued right away, addressing the Inquisition Officer.

“Captain, I expect my Wardens to stand and fight on the front lines. We will reach the Hessarians and we will hold a line for them to retreat behind. Once that’s done I would prefer to stand and fight until the generals are dead, but I’m not going to sacrifice anyone for it. If we cannot hold then the Inquisition will retreat back to this camp and on my authority will ride as quickly as possible to Highever to petition aid from Teyrn Cousland, or south to West Hill and Bann Franderel. This is Ferelden, if the Hero of Ferelden calls for aid then the Bannorn will trip over themselves to be the first ones here. But I don’t think it’s necessary at this point, and I don’t think it’s wise to wait any longer than we have already.”

“We’ve got our job cut out for us then,” The Captain said, nodding slowly but still clearly taken aback by just _how_ quickly everything could go _very_ wrong. “But for curiosity’s sake, what would you call the _best_ possible outcome?” The Commander smiled at her.

“They’re grunts.” He chuckled. “I throw a bit of lightning and watch them run into each other in the rain, your men pick them off with arrows, and after an hour or two your men are cleaning up their old camp sites and mine are singing songs on the road to Highever.”

“I think I like that plan more than a hard retreat, Warden Commander.”

“I’m ready to push those Darkspawn into the sea if you are, Captain.”

“Right. We have our plan, now let’s make it work.”

The one thing Connor hoped he would always be able to count on was the speed and efficiency of the Inquisition. They weren’t the sort of people you could ever accuse of being lazy or hesitant about anything. Gaping whole in the sky? Throw some mages at it. Orlais’ Grey Wardens go missing? Blow up their fortress. Evil Darkspawn Magister hunting your leader? Summon a dragon to the fight.  Darkspawn running rampant on the storm coast? Kindly ask the Hero of Ferelden himself to come by and blow them up for you.

It didn’t really matter how outrageous the odds were, the Inquisition’s solution would always be at least twice as bizarre and yet effective.

“Hawke, Oghren, and Zevran,” Their Warden Commander was quick and deft with his orders as the Inquisition hunkered down and its members scattered to their tasks. “I want you with the Inquisition’s front line watching the Hessarian camp. We’ll make the blast as loud as we can so you can hear it, then you’re going to wait exactly one hour afterwards to give the Darkspawn a chance to react. One hour, and then launch the attack.”

“It won’t be a clean battle,” Nathaniel emphasized. “They’re not in ranks and they won’t muster up into any formation, it’ll be a brawl from the get-go.”

“When and how do you come in?” Oghren asked, all tooth and grin under his beard as he questioned the Commander. Surana gave a casual shrug.

“As soon as we can from the demolition sight, and probably with a lot of fire.” The Constable’s head went back with a loud belly-laugh.

“No need for explosives when we’ve got you around!” Oghren was a loud, crude, rather foul-smelling person to have a superior officer, but Surana’s smile seemed charmed by the dwarf’s enthusiasm.

“Don’t get too beaten up, you won’t have Connor or I to patch you up until we arrive.” He warned.

“Will do, sir. What about the good captain there behind ya?”

Surana turned and regarded Bouclier, who immediately snapped to attention. Her helmet was under one arm and she stood proudly, her discipline suddenly making Connor feel very small and a little afraid.

“Captain,” The Commander said, stepping up to her and placing his hands behind his back. “You will be coming with Nathaniel, Connor and I to the northern entrance. Your job is to keep any large darkspawn from getting too close once we’ve drawn their attention. This is your chance.”

Bouclier struck a fist over her heart, a respectful salute.

“Thank you, Commander.”

“Do well and I might have to consider keeping you on past Vigil’s Keep.” He told her sternly. “Don’t disappoint me.”

“Yes, Commander.”

“Nathaniel, you and the Captain go and ready our horses. Make any further preparations you need before we leave.”

“Yes, Commander.” Nathaniel saluted, and then both he and Bouclier quickly turned and left the group. Nathaniel’s only look back was a quick touch to his own forehead and high salute to the other half of the company.

“Oghren,” Commander Surana said, facing the other three again. “Give them hell. Hawke, hold the line. And Zevran, stop giving me that look.”

“But-” Connor was confused, what look? He hadn’t been paying the assassin much attention, too worried about-

“I need you where I need you.” Surana told him clearly. “And that’s wreaking havoc on a messy battlefield and finding a way into that encampment to rally the Hessarians for us.”

“I’m your _bodyguard_.” The other elf protested. “Morrigan won’t like it if-”

“ _I_ will handle Morrigan, _you_ will follow orders.” Zevran frowned at him, head thrown to the side and eyes looking out sadly at the Commander. Surana didn’t flinch and the assassin straightened up with both hands raised.

“Alright, alright, I tried.” He said, fake regret making his shoulders heave. “I shall simply have to get back at you by drinking all of your favourite wine and teaching Kieran how to climb things he shouldn’t.” Surana opened his mouth to say something, but then hesitated, relaxed a little, and gave a short laugh in his throat.

“ _That_ Morrigan won’t like.” He admitted. “Happy hunting, Zevran.”

“Until we meet on the field, my friend.” The assassin grinned and Surana, although more subdued, smiled back. Then he looked to the two Wardens standing behind him and nodded to them with the same fond look.

All three saluted and took their silent dismissal.

“And you, young Connor!” Zevran quickly shouted back before going ten paces. “Good luck!” And then they just, continued on…

Oh Maker he’d dismissed everyone else and now Connor was here alone. And he was about to find out that the Commander didn’t think Connor had absolutely any potential to become a Grey Warden, he would _not_ be participating- even though he _had_ heard his name spoken right in front of him to Bouclier, but that might have been a cover. He was going to be sent away or told to stay in camp, or sent off with Inquisition soldiers instead, or even worse his stupid comment from yesterday was going to get him sent off to Redcliffe and-

“Are you nervous?” Commander Surana asked him. He still had his hands behind his back, that meant his arms were probably rubbing awkwardly against his staff- why stand like that? “Connor.”

“Yes, sir, I’m n-nervous.” He blurted out.

“Good,” Surana told him slowly, “But try not to let it get the best of you. Walk with me?” He inclined his head down through the camp and Connor followed.

Everything was a mess of activity about them: pages with swords and spears and shields for handing out, soldiers running drills, officers giving orders. They didn’t know how bad the fighting would be but the Inquisition would be ready for it.

“I want you to take point from me during the battle.” Surana said, jolting Connor away from the bustling camp. “But unless I explicitly tell you to do or not do something, you have free reign over yourself. Do what your instincts say because I won’t tell you what order to use your spells in, or when to attack unless I need your immediate attention. Captain Bouclier’s job is to keep you out of imminent danger and I expect you to listen if she tells you to do something, the same goes for Nathaniel.”

“I understand, sir, completely, yes.” Connor babbled, and the Commander gave him a crooked smile. His blond hair wasn’t long enough to tie back or keep out of his face, it looked airy and bright in the increasingly strong sun. “But if I don’t know what to do then, I just look at you and- try to copy, I suppose?”

“More or less.” He nodded, then looked over Connor’s head and pointed. “You’ll finally get to put that to good use.”

Connor looked up, saw nothing, turned- felt his staff knock against his legs… He closed his eyes and came back down to Commander Surana’s level, hating himself.

“My staff.” He grunted. “You meant- my staff.” When he looked again Surana was grinning openly, and the shorter mage swung a hand out to clap his shoulder.

“You’ll do fine.” The Hero told him. “You survived your Harrowing, how bad can a few Darkspawn be?” Connor groaned, but kept his answer to himself.

It seemed to be Nathaniel’s job to help Connor with all things warden-ly, because the hunter was the one to make him quickly go through his gear and rearrange it before they left camp. His rations, water, potions, herbs, and other medical supplies were all packaged properly in the satchels and folds of the large belt he’d been given at Skyhold. His dagger hadn’t left his side since getting on the road and Nathaniel noted it with approval.

“But we’ll be back in a few hours?” Connor tried to make some sense of the checking and double-checking.

“ _Always_ carry your rations with you.” Howe scolded him. “You can throw the weight off in a fight if you can’t hack it, but _always_ make sure you pick it up again. I can’t count the number of times I’ve found myself stomping down some wayward mountain trail because one thing or another’s chased my horse and all my supplies off Maker-know’s where. Blankets are a luxury, Guerrin, water is not.”

“But that’s a wine skin?” He stupidly pointed out, eyeing the Warden’s own belt. Nathaniel’s brows shot up and he pointed straight between Connor’s eyes with one finger.

“It’s not wine, it’s _better_.” Oh Maker, that made it more of Hawke’s dragon piss…

Within an hour they were marching. The day was bright but the rain was coming down on them, heavy drops of cold, slick water spitting down from above. Their horses were saddled and ready, but Surana had them hitched at the base of the Inquisition’s hill. The Commander had no real time to give orders to Connor, so he followed Nathaniel instead and let Surana speak and pass information back and forth with Corporal Vale, the Inquisition officer running their arm of the operation.

There were twenty Inquisition soldiers ready with them, plus two men with only simple weapons but crates of… well, Connor had to assume they were explosives. He didn’t want to stand too close to them and was glad Nathaniel and Bouclier made a bee-line for the other edge of the party line.

They marched over loose, wet gravel and Connor worked his hardest to shake off the fear that Captain Bouclier’s heavy armour would make her sink under the surf-beaten pebbles. Keeping his own footing was something of a nightmare, but it wasn’t until Connor looked back once, and then up at the treeline overhead, that he realized just how quickly they were going. It felt like that swift not-run that Nathaniel always put him through every morning between outright bursts of speed, but with the difficult terrain it was almost easier? He wasn’t carrying his cloak, spare clothes, blanket or sleeping roll however- maybe that was part of it?

It was poor luck to use a bow in any situation where it could get wet, but Nathaniel nocked, drew, and fired one shot in such a smooth, ready motion that Connor almost thought it was a normal thing for him to do on the move. The arrow sailed like a black dart between the raindrops, and when it came down it pierced straight through the head of a small creature with pointed ears that collapsed soundlessly to the ground. Connor caught a quick look back at Commander Surana, and the Hero of Ferelden’s eyes had that eerie blue glow to them, visible even several feet away.

They walked right over the body of the genlock, it’s mis-matched teeth yellow and red from rot, grizzly rotted body flung dramatically on the wet ground. One arrow killed it, but Nathaniel didn’t even have to kneel down before announcing that the others with it had scattered back down the beach. He retrieved his arrow, and the company carried on.

They followed the beach and the surf was pounding loudly, crashing over the pebbled ground and hissing back like a great beast. The water stank of something between fish and salt, wholly different from the waters of Lake Calenhad. The small force moved quickly onward until the grey granite cliffs of Ferelden’s shore rose up again, nearly a mile from where they’d started, and a barely there between the rolling edges of the cliff was a fragile stone path, a black cave resting with the faded marks of an old dwarven casement marking it out clearly from where they stood.

“I was hoping for more high ground.” The Commander’s voice made Connor jump, he was suddenly so much closer than he’d been for the march. “The Inquisition’s archers can have the hill, there are more of them anyways.” Connor hadn’t even _seen_ what hill they were talking about, but he looked around and saw Surana’s gauntlet-clad fingers pointing to a ridge in the cliffs next to them, and he saw heads and shoulders moving quickly through the rain to get in position.

“Darkspawn _love_ mages, I’m sure it’ll work out better this way.” Nathaniel joked.

On their left the remaining Inquisition soldiers, plus the two men and their dangerous cargo, were quickly passing them. There was movement at the cave mouth but Connor just watched the shadow jump out and then scurry back inside again. The soldiers moved until they were tucked down at the base of the steep path leading up into the deep roads’ maw, the perfect position to flank anything that came spewing out onto the beach and then, Connor assumed, sneak up behind the hoard and plant the explosives.

Bouclier was rolling her neck, her helmet dripping with rain and shining in the bright light eeking through the clouds. She drew her sword and held her shield on one arm, flexing her shoulders and stomping her feet against the pebbled ground to dig in. Nathaniel pulled something from his belt and stuck it between his teeth, taking an arrow and fastening something to its head. Connor was surprised when he saw Commander Surana pull a helmet on as well, but he’d known for days now that the Warden Commander wore much heavier armour than most mages. There was probably a good reason for it, but now was not the right time to go asking.

“They’re in position.” Surana announced.

“Whose getting this started, you or the recruit?” Nathaniel asked, word slurred by the leather piece in his mouth. He finished what he was doing with his arrow and removed it, and Connor realized now that it was a leather case filled with small golden nodes. He closed the case and tucked it away again, and then Connor had to address the question itself.

He looked at Commander Surana, and the elf was already eyeing him.

Connor panicked.

“Oh no- I- uh, that-”

“Not this time?” Surana asked, and it was so _painfully_ obvious that he was smiling under his helmet.

“N-Not this time, Commander.”

“Next time.” That felt like a threat- “Inquisition! On my mark!” He raised his staff with one fist, and the soldiers on the hill above them gave a loud boom.

The staff came down and it was already on fire, tails of orange heat ghosted from both ends as he flipped his hand and sent the staff winding over the back of his wrist. He built momentum with the spin so fast and easily that it blurred into a wheel of fire, knees bent low and balance centred. Then he pulled the whole thing around and Connor watched the crimson lines of the spell’s power coil around his body, focus at his hand, and _launch_.

The fire’s heat made the air suck and pop before the spell spun wildly and flew on a dead straight line. It struck the casement directly over the opening and exploded, blood-red fire spilling like wine over the cliff face and down over the doorway like a deadly curtain. There were unearthly shrieks from inside, and the fire burned away quickly to leave a black scar on the stone.

“Hold!” Surana shouted, but Connor brought his staff up anyways because he saw the spell’s effect the same way everyone else did. Not one little genlock, one short and stumpy-looking creature with blighted flesh and mangled teeth. Several of them came leaping out of the darkness, crooked blades bare in the rain. They jumped and let their feet skid down the path, hitting the pebbled ground at a flat sprint. By the time the short genlocks hit the beach there was more activity at the door: taller beasts this time, man-sized and howling, black tongues lolling from their decayed mouths as they tasted the fresh wet air.

 _“Let them come!_ ” Hurlocks. Many, many hurlocks. Surana’s staff started spinning again and all Connor could do was try to grapple with the fire anxiously scratching away at his insides. Rain- fire? Fire in rain? Ice in rain. Ice melts in rain. Not fire, not ice, better idea, use- “ _ATTACK!_ ”

Captain Bouclier was almost twenty feet ahead of Connor and to her left close to the shore was Nathaniel, bow up and his first arrow gone through the air with Surana’s command. Connor was only a step behind the Commander, but off to his right so they could keep out each other’s immediate way.

Bouclier slammed her sword’s hilt against her shield and gave a powerful cry that locked all Darkspawn eyes on her, then stood her ground as they charged. Nathaniel’s shot and a hailstorm of Inquisition arrows peppered the ground and took three genlocks down together in screaming piles.

Connor pulled his staff around and threw a bolt from the back end, let the serpentstone head follow its own momentum around his body, and with a fast push with one hand he set the rod spinning hard and fast around the metal plate worked into his robe’s long sleeve. He sucked deep on the magic thrashing around him, caught the staff on its fourth rotation, and slammed the blunt end down into the pebbles.

A crackle of violet terror shook past his feet, launched itself straight up from the staff, and he felt his mind tangle with the several bolts of lightning screaming back down to earth. Two of them he ran straight through a pair of hurlocks and took them off their feet, the third struck too late, and the fourth he lost completely and it spat itself out on the wet ground.

Surana threw another fireball, just as hair-raising as the first, but this time it sailed straight into the black mouth of the Deep Roads and the blast belched screams and crimson fire back out into the rain. His staff swung fluidly around him, like it was bending itself the way a piece of fabric would, and a pearly white light blossomed under Bouclier’s feet. Connor didn’t even see the Commander actually cast the spell, he just moved his staff in a fast, simple dance and the magic was there.

“ _Second wave!_ ” Surana shouted as the first genlocks finally threw themselves into Captain Bouclier’s circle of attack. The first one collided with her shield, came off the ground, and left an ugly black smear on the metal plate before it struck the beach several feet away. She took the next one at the knee with her sword and parted leg from body, pulling her guard close again in time to ram a third one at such an angle that it collapsed under her weight and then took the pointed end of her kite shield to the head.

Maker help him, Bouclier was not in _danger_. That was- well of course she was in _danger_ she was fighting Darkspawn, not pigeons, but she needed absolutely no help in dispatching them herself. So he didn’t need to take his attention off the hurlock bearing down on them with a set of arrows in its chest and send a chilling blast of icy magic through the last genlock in front of her, he just did it and she- and she…

Well, she hit it with her shield and it shattered is what happened.

“ _More of that!”_ The Captain laughed, slamming her shield again with her sword arm again and creating enough noise to distract the hurlocks trying to run past her. The one Connor had been worried about turned its head in such a beautiful way that an Inquisition arrow split right through its head and out one eye, it died mid-step and collapsed like the sack of bones it was.

Either Nathaniel’s arrows, his bow, or the Warden himself just made his shots count more, because where it would take three or more shots from the Inquisition to fell a single Darkspawn, Connor watched the Grey Warden aim two arrows on the same draw, and kill two beasts without breaking stride. He was far enough away to the west of them that his boots were sloshing in the sea water, but the distance just made his arrows stronger and at no point did Surana call him back.

Anything that survived the supressing fire from the Inquisition and Nathaniel somehow wound up Connor’s responsibility. It took several harrowing minutes before he realized Commander Surana’s spells were aimed at supporting the people around him, and his only offensive acts were those terrifying blasts of fire he aimed directly into the deep roads. He was flushing them out on purpose, clearing the way for the Inquisition to eventually get in there and set the charges. He was busy with that and casting wards: protection and rest under Bouclier, a complicated flower of magical repulsion under Nathaniel, and a glyph of healing that somehow kept Connor’s magic flowing well after he knew he should have been exhausted.

“Archers, Connor! Hit the archers!” Some genlocks decided Bouclier’s sword was not for them today and drew crossbows and shortbows out under the persistent rain. It showed how stupid they were when one of them actually stood _directly in front_ of the Inquisition soldiers hiding in the flank, firing away with no idea how close they were.

Connor chose to ice that one, a chilling hand of winter’s fury seemed easier to control than another possibly wayward bolt of lightning. He didn’t know how else to hurt it after that though, shaking at the thought that any moment now he was going to take an arrow through his own skull.

The Commander was either annoyed or willing to help him, because had four more hurlocks not thrown themselves from the cave his solution would have been comical. A glyph of violent magic designed to fling opponents away from you blossomed under the Genlock, and it was shot forward in a tumbling heap. Connor struck it dead with lightning and was shocked it actually _worked_.

This was why the Wardens were on the beach and not the hill, this was why the other half of the Inquisition’s forces were hidden, waiting, and remained quiet. Three Grey Wardens was plenty for this task, even Connor wasn’t exactly necessary, and if Bouclier felt any fatigue as the bodies piled up at her feet then the Orlesian didn’t let it show.

One last fireball flew into the cavern but this time Connor heard no echoing shrieks. Surana pulled his hands and staff back and his arms rippled with fire, heat turning rain to steam as he rested back on his heels, reached down deep for something, and threw his arms up with mana shimmering through the air. The ground behind the last Hurlock bled crimson and erupted with flame, effectively blocking the darkspawn’s only possible retreat.

The Inquisition soldiers guarding the explosives finally moved. They broke from their shield wall and ran up the steep incline, warriors to the front and back protecting their charges. There was shouting, but all the voices sounded human and Connor felt his entire body tingling from the adrenaline.

He was soaking wet but not cold at all, his ears ringing as Bouclier’s sword cleft through one hurlock at the gut and her shield’s edge flashed up and took another one out at the throat. Commander Surana was walking towards her but didn’t come past the edge of the glyph he’d cast for her, watching her fight. Her sword must have stuck in the first beast because she let go of it, shield up to protect her from the third one’s heavy sword as it clanged down off the silverite. She retaliated with a punch that knocked it back, but had to pivot and bring the shield around again when the fourth launched itself at her with a shriek.

After the entire fight, this was eerily quiet. Now Connor felt the cold, because the arrows from the Inquisition had stopped and Nathaniel was jogging from the edge of the crashing waves up the steep path into the deep roads. Bouclier held off one blow and then the other, and Warden Commander Surana watched closely, circling outside the glyph with his staff’s still-burning head hovering low to the ground.

Connor was petrified, watching both Wardens _and_ the Darkspawn at the same time. Captain Bouclier didn’t ask for help, and Commander Surana didn’t offer any. Connor couldn’t see either of their faces because of those blasted helmets and therefore had no idea if Bouclier was in fact struggling or not. Surana could have just as easily been putting _pressure_ on her to finish the fight as he could have been offering protection through the glyph and the fact that he was _right there_.

He edged closer, nerves eating away at him. He didn’t come quite as close as the Commander, but at a certain point he heard it: she was gasping. He heard her grunt when lifting the shield again. And then, like an idiot, he noticed the red on her flank. Not brackish and poisoned and half-congealed already, but bright and fresh and red. Bouclier threw her shield up again and needed both arms this time. The hurlocks were so completely focused on fighting the warrior they both completely ignored the two mages right at the edge of the fight.

“Uh-” Connor’s hands were gripping his staff so tightly he thought his gloves might pop at the seams. The weight of the rain pulling down on his robe was starting to smother him. The cold dread was filling him up as he stood there, watching, horrified that any moment now Bouclier would take a knee and Commander Surana would have only a brief _second_ to do anything before both Darkspawn fell on her. This felt macabre. It felt _wrong._ “Sir-”

He didn’t know how to say it. He didn’t know how to say ‘ _let me help_ ’ _._ The company was supposed to work together, wasn’t it? This was not working together, this-

Commander Surana was looking at him, he’d taken the archmage’s attention away from the _immediate problem_. His glowing eyes were reflecting the creature’s taint back at Connor, and the way he just sort of… of leaned his head back. Like he was thinking. Or waiting. He was waiting?

The penny dropped.

The words ‘ _unless explicitly told to do or not do something_ ’ roared through him louder than the Waking Sea could try to copy. Connor inhaled so sharply it sounded like someone had stepped on a dog.

The back end of his staff snapped out and Connor sent a frigid blast of desperate magic up between one hurlock’s legs, stunning it so badly it dropped its sword over its own head. In one reflexive motion the staff’s head whipped forward and Connor sent every ounce of ‘ _Maker I’m so sorry!’_ at the Captain.

He remembered lavender and jasmine and the soft glow of tiny pearls, reaching one hand out and searching faster than a thought could fly. Of course her arms hurt and her shoulder was bruised and the sweat was in her eyes and the slice through the slats of her armour was two inches deep weeping pale red blood.

He clenched his hand around the idea of that wound, and they both felt it knit shut before the captain had finished making her turn.

“ _AAAH!_ ” She roared, shield arm powering forward and her free hand drawing a straight Orlesian dagger from her belt. The shield checked the Hurlock dead-on, the dagger plunged into its gut, pulled back and the shield struck again, reversed, and the steel plunged through its eye.

She drew back and the creature Connor had stunned was chasing Surana, the Commander backing up swiftly with long, smooth strides over the pebbled ground without lifting his staff to defend himself. It didn’t swing at him, it was too slow to catch up, and Connor threw a bolt off his staff to get its attention. The beast reeled and spun back, jagged sword raised as it charged back down the beach at Connor.

Bouclier had retrieved her sword, the darkspawn was too weak-minded to notice anything but Connor, and she parted its head from its shoulders in one swift, clean cut.

With the wet crunch of its body hitting the ground, the battle was done.

“I’m so sorry-” Connor leapt to the sudden occasion, mortified by his own incompetence. “You were injured and I didn’t even notice it, I swear I never saw any of them come close to hitting you, I-”

Bouclier held a hand out to him, palm showing, and Connor bit his tongue to stop talking. The Grey Warden reached back with the same hand and pulled her helmet off slowly, shaking her hair out in the rain and looking up into the shower for a moment to wash the heat and sweat away.

“Are you injured, Recruit?” Bouclier asked him. Connor was shocked by the question and, um, well he did a stupid little dance actually, making sure the adrenaline hadn’t hidden anything from him.

“No, Captain.” A little tired and horribly shaken, but-

“Commander?” Bouclier said, looking at Surana where the Warden Commander had slowly rejoined them. He kept his helmet on, but his tone was smooth and sounded pleased.

“I feel quite well, Captain.”

“And Warden Howe?” She slid her shield over onto her back, letting the handle catch on something similar to Connor’s own belt and hook. Then she placed one hand over the place where she’d been bleeding, eyes on the Commander.

“He’s up at the entrance making sure the Darkspawn don’t get a jump on our men in there, but he seemed unscathed as well.” Surana reported, and then the pleasure in his voice became an outright smile and he nodded to her. “Excellent work, Captain, the battlefield speaks for itself.” He gestured to the scattered bodies of broken, dismembered darkspawn. Despite her fatigue, Bouclier smiled proudly.

“I quite wish those last two had not been so stubborn.” She admitted. “It was sloppy of me.”

“You handled it the way I expect a warrior of your calibre should. But there’s more fighting ahead of us today. You hid your pain well, but if you need help now is the time to let either of us know.” Surana gestured to himself and to Connor, and the junior mage wilted again.

“I- I really didn’t know…” He felt so stupid.

“That was the point, Recruit.” Bouclier explained, slowly catching her breath and no longer panting so heavily. She straightened up as well, giving herself a slow, careful stretch to see how well he’d cast his healing spell. “I could do nothing about the Darkspawn smelling my blood, but I wasn’t going to start howling and encouraging them either. What was that silence between you though? You were looking at each other so strangely.”

“You had time to notice that?” Connor marvelled.

“At the time it was a bit more profane and to the point, but yes.” Probably along the lines of ‘ _why aren’t you Dog-lord idiots doing anything!?’_ , but Connor deserved that.

“He’s still learning.” Commander Surana assured her, one hand raised to explain something Connor didn’t know if he himself understood. “The hardest part for any mage in the order is learning to give their own commands. This was Connor’s first proper fight with the Grey Wardens and I wanted to see what he would do on his own.”

“Ah, so I am the test subject?” Bouclier questioned, but she made it sound like it was nothing? “Watch the Darkspawn wail on me and see what he does? Fair enough, I suppose.” She said that, and then held back something else. Just the way she set her lips, took a careful breath, she hesitated before speaking again. “Is it simply the way of things in Ferelden to give so much tactical training before the Joining itself?”

The question blindsided the Commander. Connor couldn’t explain why it happened, but he knew what it was: the Commander simply froze while looking at nothing, looked at Bouclier through his helmet, and then looked past her again and up.

“They’re finished.” He said in a flat voice, clearing his throat and lifting his staff up where it had been resting on the ground. “We’ll continue this conversation later, Captain.” Surana then walked right between both of them under the pretense of meeting Nathaniel where the other Warden was jogging towards them.

Connor felt Bouclier looking at him. He looked back at her and just- did nothing. He didn’t know what to do? He’d known the Warden Commander for exactly four days longer than she had?

“I don’t know?” He gurgled. Yes, gurgled was a good word for it. She cast a curious look after their superior officer, and then both of them slowly made their way forward to hear what Nathaniel had to report.

“Charges are set,” he was saying as they arrived. “The architecture’s awfully weird down there, almost a shame we have to destroy it all.”

“What makes you say that?” Surana asked him.

“Usually the Deep Roads descend at a slow incline and carry on for miles in one direction at a time, but these ones are all stairs going down and around.” Nathaniel explained. “Maybe the dwarves just weren’t expecting to run into the Waking Sea when they did and had to get up or down very quickly to avoid flooding themselves. Not sure how deep it goes, but the charges go down to the second level and that should be plenty of rock to stop the blighters from coming back up.”

“Wait for the Inquisition to finish falling back and then blow the charges, Nathaniel.”

“With pleasure, Commander.”

Corporal Vale joined them with the explosive’s workers a few minutes later and was brought up to speed on everything, then the rest of the Inquisition soldiers all moved up to the hill where their companions had stood for the battle. The Grey Wardens remained on the beach, about a hundred yards from the cave entrance, ready to stop any dare-devil creatures who tried rushing out before the charges could go off.

Connor finally got to see what that odd metal node Nathaniel had attached to his arrow was for. He hadn’t fired the shaft throughout the fight, but nocked it now and drew his poor damp bow all the way back to his ear. Connor heard him murmur something close to ‘ _get you a new string I promise_ ’ before he let the shot fly and the arrow sailed on a smooth arc through the fading rain.

It landed right in the mouth of the cave and gave a shockwave of power, some kind of alchemical explosion that-

_Boom Boom Boom_

-worked _quickly_ and the ground _shook_ , and-

_Boom Boom Boom_

It felt like thunder under their feet, the pebbles dancing under the rain, black smoke and foul dust belching from the cave mouth. Rocks trembled and fell from the cliff, fractures opening up in its grey skin. It convulsed, began to collapse, and-

_Boom Boom BOOM_

And something- something went- wrong?

The ground _dropped_. Connor felt the beach heave and dropped hard on his knees, stunned. Nathaniel struggled for his footing and Surana took a knee in surprise, shouting something.

_BOOM. BOOM. BOOM._

“ _NATE!_ ” Surana shouted, grabbing Connor’s arm and trying to get both of them up, pulling him away. “ _Move! MOVE!_ ”

Connor looked and watched the world bend, the ground crinkling like paper as it dropped again and he hit the ground, scrambling madly to find his feet as Surana swore and kicked at the ground from his knees. Dust and mud exploded up from the base of the cliff, then again, ten feet closer, and _again-_

“The road!” Bouclier screamed, “It’s under us! _”_

Connor found his feet and found Nathaniel’s arm, grabbing it with both hands and trying to pull- but his feet went right through the sand and gravel as it shook and melted away. His legs felt the pressure of the ground biting at him and he howled, felt Surana grab him only to be pulled down with him.

Surana’s hand let off a blast of magic and Connor felt a barrier swim across his skin, pushing back on what was pulling him down, but-

_BOOM._

_BOOM._

**_BOOM._ **

Everything fell: the rain, the ground, the Grey Wardens.

Everything fell.

And then the Waking Sea’s waves came surging down after them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m not bitter about Fireball being nerfed after Origins, no. I’m not bitter at ALL. It’s not like it was my favourite spell in the entire damned game, no, definitely not.


	16. Sandy Wardens, Slightly Charred

 

Connor blacked out.

He didn’t, actually, black out, but a switch in his mind was flipped that told him not to remember anything that happened after it was done. He didn’t remember the suffocating pressure of the ground opening and closing again around his body. He didn’t remember the free-fall through darkness. He didn’t remember the roaring scream of salt water meeting fire. He didn’t remember the thunderstruck crash of his fall abruptly ending, a cocoon of sand and earth and heavy stone encasing him in darkness.

Connor didn’t have any memory of the water and sand churning into a slurry of rabid force, driving him along through darkness until he settled, was brought to rest, and his mind was allowed to resume its usual functions.

He panicked, outright. He screamed: his arms were pinned, his chest was crushed with weight, he was soaking wet and his mouth tasted of sand, blood, and salt. Screaming and writhing didn’t free him immediately, it didn’t free him at all until he felt the weight over the back of his skull shift. He wasn’t deep in the mud, he was just face-down and drowning in it.

His left fingers, crushed and bruised, were wrapped around something and his screaming mind found the resonance of his staff’s silverite and serpentstone body reaching back for him. Tears squeezing from his eyes into the bed of sand smothering him, Connor screamed and felt the staff go bright white in his mind.

This was going to hurt, and he was okay with that.

The glyph’s lines formed like quicksilver in his mind’s eye, and he poured the design and all the power it could possibly need through his staff. The enchanted stone at the end of it amplified, hummed with, and then burst out a raucous boom of magic. In layman’s terms: Connor made himself explode.

The mana was hot and it definitely scored against his legs, but raw kinetic energy was well worth the pain and with an unholy scream Connor felt his body lurch against the weight crushing him, his legs fly free over his head, and his entire body jettisoned forward.

He hit hard flat stone and slid, gouging his lower lip against his teeth and taking sharp cuts of stone against his forehead. Air hacked and wheezed from his lungs and his ribs were threaded with pain, but he clawed his way to his hands and knees and crawled, raked himself forward _weeping_ , away from his prison.

He didn’t know how far he scratched in the dark before he realized he could see, but his arms gave out and landed him on his elbows, and at that point it was all a matter of spitting, crying, and trying to breathe. He wasn’t dead. Connor had absolutely no idea how, but he wasn’t dead. Not yet.

The air felt heavy, thick with mist and- after a few seconds he recognized it: steam. He looked up ahead of him and there was a threatening, bloody glow to the air, a distinct heat unlike anything he’d ever felt before. The walls formed slowly, ribs of a great beast many, many feet taller than Connor himself, stretching almost out of range of that eerie red light. The pillars were massive things, greater than the oldest Ferelden oaks, and they went on _forever…_

These were the Deep Roads.

Oh Maker, what about the others?

He twisted on the ground and tried to see where he’d come from. A steaming, settling wall of gurgling rubble was all he found, a shallow slope of debris leading back about twenty yards before it suddenly stacked and filled the entire cavern from floor to ceiling. The steam and a deep grinding noise was coming from back there, where the cave-in was complete, because the rubble had fallen into the channels of molten stone and metal that gave light to the roads.

Closer to Connor there was a deep crater where he’d blown himself out. He scrambled around on all fours again, frantically scraping his staff up out of the shattered debris around him, and hobbled back.

“No- No…” he didn’t yell or cry out, not yet. There were supposed to be Darkspawn down here and they were supposed to go crazy when they heard a meal or a fight anywhere close to them. The whole _point_ of the blast had been to bring them here- right here, to the place where Connor was now.

He wasn’t dead yet. He would be dead imminently, but right now, no, he was not dead.

Connor hauled himself up onto the rubble, pulled his staff up and stabbed the blunt end of it into the settling debris. He closed his eyes and grit his teeth and sent a pulse of healing magic down through the mud. Nothing. He quickly forced his sore body to climb several feet up and over the great hunks of rock and stone, found another place to wedge the staff, and healed again. No good.

He would do this until the Darkspawn came and dragged him off for their pot. Healing rocks obviously did nothing at all, but showering mana over someone living hiding _under_ all the debris was something else. Maybe there was a spell lost in a book somewhere in Kinloch Hold’s abandoned libraries that was specifically named ‘ _finding people trapped in landslides’_ , but Connor didn’t know it. Connor just knew how to heal. He also knew how to conjure lightning but that did _not_ seem as appropriate right now!

He moved onward and upward, striking the landslide repeatedly until he felt something! His magic struggled against the grains and chunks of the collapsed tunnel but found a pocket, the spell speeding away from him through a space that went by too fast for him to describe. But at the edge of that bubble he found something. He found a leg.

He cast the spell again and felt that leg move, a body that was aching for air and heart thrashing in near panic, drowning in salt and ash and-

Struggling not to lose his balance and crash ten feet back down the ragged incline, Connor pulled his staff back, gave the stem a firm snap to get it spinning, and used both hands to slam the casting head forward. His magic was surging up on the adrenaline wave and the spell was fully realized before he let it go at the rock.

Magic split the ground open, pulling away great clods of sodden earth and stone like a dragon’s tail lashing the surface until something finally gave.

Water blasted out at him, striking Connor in the face and blinding him. He immediately fell back, slamming his body over the ragged edges of the debris and thundering to the ground again. The difference this time was that someone came with him: a long-limbed, soaked and filth-dragged wretch that slammed hard on a large boulder to Connor’s right and vomited a mixture of saltwater and profanity.

Terror and pain made Connor thrust a palm full of the brightest light he could conjure at whatever he’d just released, and Nathaniel Howe howled in pain and fell off the rock away from him, laying prone and convulsing on the ground.

“Howe- _ah-_ ” Connor tried to get up and gasped when he felt the damage from his second fall, a snapped rib in the middle of his torso. He curled his body around the searing injury, but then told himself to hobble forward on elbow and side to reach the Warden.

Nathaniel had his elbows planted on the ground and was retching: coughing violently and sucking in as much air as he could manage. He was a great ball of filth, his hair slick with saltwater and grime, every inch of his once-blue grey warden armour caked in mud and sand. But he was alive. And after a few moments of almost-fresh air, he was able look Connor’s way with recognition and what might have been relief.

“Bouclier?” Howe gasped, sand and blood spitting over his lips. “Surana?”

“I’ll keep looking-” Connor lost his breath much faster than he should have, taking a moment to close his eyes and just not die.

“You’re injured.”

“You pushed me.” This was not the time for jokes, but Connor heard Nathaniel give a broken wheeze that might have been a laugh. When the Warden pulled in another breath and held it though, Connor looked at him again and saw Nathaniel’s focus nailed somewhere behind him.

“Your light.” The Warden nodded, and Connor forced himself slowly and painfully to his knees, looking the same way. He conjured a small light to aid against the red glow of the Deep Roads, and saw it immediately.

Commander Surana’s gold staff was sticking the wrong way out of the debris. Its golden body was splattered with filth but picked up Connor’s light easily. He hobbled as quickly as he could towards it only to stop very suddenly, staring at the landslide in shock.

When mages said they could _‘sense’_ magic, people always assumed it was something related to their head. Maybe a little buzzing sound or a sharp pain in the roof of their mouth. Maybe magic had a smell or kind of constant glow. Actually, when Connor or any other mage said they could _sense_ magic around, it was because it resonated with their own.

Connor stopped because the burning in his chest went cold. He felt his injured rib scream when his torso shrank on itself, the intensity of his magic still crackling away but with all the heat stolen from it. He felt magic, powerful magic, but before he could do anything to help the spells at work suddenly took effect.

A fist punched straight out through the mud and Connor regretted his reaction: screeching was not good for his ribs or for making himself look competent. He took a knee as soon as his rib shifted, but was able to look up as the gauntleted fist clenched, twisted like a snake’s head, and pulled itself down just to cause a cracking bulge to grow under it. Connor heard a voice yelling, and then with one more push Captain Bouclier’s shoulders and head tore free from the landslide. She’d lost her helmet in the fall and her armour was dark with filth and mud, but she ripped her upper body out of the debris and Connor finally remembered himself.

Something under her was glowing white, howling with magic, and Connor flung an arm out to Bouclier who took it. Her grip was ironclad and honestly almost pulled Connor into the hole instead of the other way around, but he got one foot braced on a solid chunk of rock and managed not to go flying as she grunted and hauled herself free. She reached back at the last moment to take something out with her and Connor recognized her shield.

The light _flared_ when the shield was pulled out, the warrior staggering down next to Connor and letting herself down on her knees with a heavy clank of metal. She knelt there gasping and Connor- he would have healed her, but he was caught off guard by a chill of something icy washing over his skin. He reached one filthy hand up to his mouth and touched his chin, shocked as the pain from his gouged lip melted away. He could feel it, almost see it in his mind as his rib began pulling its shards back together and set itself painlessly, seamlessly, healed.

Warden Commander Surana was not quick to climb free from the rubble. He reached out first with a hand and grabbed a shard of stone, his gauntlet radiating light and magic swirling around him like a current around a pond. He moved slowly, like moving was a complicated feat, and Connor heard the ground settle as the elven warden’s silver helmet appeared over the lip of Bouclier’s hole. His outline was blurred, difficult to focus on, and he climbed very, very slowly out into view, one leg at a time, each limb working deliberately but with slow, seizing movements.

It wasn’t radiant light, not now that Connor could see it properly. It was more like pearly, evanescent white smoke steaming off his helmet, pouring from the eye-slats. It had the clarity of light but moved like something thicker, following his fingertips and rolling through the air before vanishing. He might have been as filthy as the rest of them, but it just didn’t feel that way as he climbed down to solid ground and took slow, silent count of the three of them.

“Commander?” Connor tried, at a loss for anything useful to say really, but the Warden Commander was the only one to escape the landslide without coughing and retching on the ground immediately afterwards. It was absolutely terrifying, but mesmerizing at the same time. Maybe they wouldn’t die down here.

Surana lifted a hand briefly, asking Connor to wait with whatever he might have wanted to say. The Commander slowly, carefully, removed his helmet, tucking it under one arm. His eyes were completely white, trails of that thick magic spilling from them even when he blinked. His lips parted like he meant to speak, but then he reconsidered.

Connor watched his mentor turn away to the side, place a hand against a large hunk of shattered rock nearly as tall as he was, and then let the spell around him end.

The Hero of Ferelden then immediately bent forward and vomited. They were definitely going to die down here.

“What _was_ that?” Bouclier asked, down on one knee still but having regained enough of herself to speak. “That magic, it-”

“Is old,” Surana interrupted, spitting again before slowly standing up straight again, his arm bent and still holding him up against the stone. “And I don’t- like to use it very often…”

“Are you hurt, Commander?” Connor asked at last. There was still magic radiating out from the Archmage, but it wasn’t nearly as formidable as the wall of energy from before. This almost felt familiar, a refreshing energy coming not quite from the Commander himself but just behind him- beyond him. A spirit, perhaps?

“I was about to ask the same thing,” Surana admitted, and with clearer eyes he scanned their surroundings again. He settled in Nathaniel’s direction and went to him immediately. “Bouclier, can you stand?”

Not only was the captain on her feet again now that she’d briefly rested, but Connor saw her lift her filthy shield up in a high guard when addressed.

“The surface was just my warm-up.” She boasted.

“Connor, come.”

“Your staff-”

“Come!” He followed, leaving Surana’s staff still upside down in the rubble.

And then his stomach dropped when he realized that Nathaniel was still laying prone on the ground where Connor’d left him. He was breathing in short, ragged bursts, groaning softly whenever he tried to move.

“Nate-” Surana said, stepping over him and taking a quick knee. How Surana’s sword and shield had survived the fall was a question for another hour, but he still moved smooth and easily with them on.

“Good, you’re not dead.” The other warden joked, but his voice was laboured. “I’d say I can’t feel my legs but it’d be a lie. There’s not much else I _can_ feel. _”_ Surana’s hands were enrobed in potent blue light as Howe spoke, intricate gestures painting magic down the archer’s back. As soon as the spell reached Howe’s hips the Commander slowed considerably, moving the magic back and forth in steady, even motions from hip to knee.

“You didn’t say anything,” Connor croaked, well aware that it was his own fault for not asking or checking the Grey Warden himself before running off.

“I’m breathing because of you, Guerrin.” Howe tried to make it sound like that somehow made a difference, but Connor just felt numb. “Priorities, lad.”

“Why are you always this stubborn when injured?” Surana complained, and Connor made himself kneel down opposite the Commander to assist him. “Do you enjoy laying in agony?”

Nathaniel laughed, then groaned. Connor’s magic told him that the Warden had wrenched and torn the muscles meant to hold his hip together on Surana’s side, his other leg in front of Connor was cleanly snapped below the knee. The Warden Commander’s skilled powers dealt with the more complicated tears and ruptures while Connor worked swiftly on the bone. With both of them stringing magic and energy together, the injured Warden soon began to breathe easier, the tension slowly ebbing away.

“Worst thing you can do when about to be hunted is start screaming,” Nathaniel sighed, responding to Connor’s hands when he guided the Warden to flex his ankle, then bend his knee under his own power. “Maker bless you both: that feels a lot better.”

“Don’t move yet,” Surana warned, his fingers twisting and stubbornly repeating one motion over and over again. Connor could see the magic like thin strands of wool woven into the blanket of a spell. Either something had snagged in the complicated pattern Surana needed or Nathaniel’s body was resisting him, and the Archmage’s focus could not waver from what was in front of him.

A quick, sharp whistle cut the air and Nathaniel tensed up again.

“Connor, go support the captain.” Surana ordered, still bent to his task. Connor quickly grabbed his staff.

“Soren it’s a mess, leave me.” Nathaniel could not have meant for Connor to hear him.

“Shut up, Howe.”

They were not going to leave him. Connor would have feared it but he heard the severity in the Commander’s voice and was able to leave with the confidence that no, they would _not_ leave Nathaniel behind to die. He hurried away from them and saw Bouclier’s sand-stained armour clearly in the low light, her body braced against a large boulder of cut stone nearly twice as tall and wide as the warrior herself. When she saw him she gestured sharply and Connor scampered, quick as he could, through the heat and damp to reach her. The captain’s eyes were glowing blue with the presence of Darkspawn, and there were grey streaks of sand and grit cut across her dark skin, congealed in her hair.

Instead of speaking to him, Bouclier signed something with her sword hand. She opened two fingers and then placed them to her arm, flashed five, then made a fist to the same part of her arm. Connor just- uh-

He picked a member of the company at random. The person he chose was Hawke. It was now Hawke’s fault Connor didn’t know any Warden hand signals, even though he was the one who’d never bothered to ask if that was something he might need to know. You couldn’t go running around in the Deep Roads screaming ‘ _I think there’s an ogre up ahead, everyone!’_

Bouclier caught on to his hopeless look quick enough, and repeated her gestures with fast, low whispers.

“Two,” and the touch. “Hurlocks. Five,” then a fist- “Genlocks.”

“Scouts?” Connor guessed, and Bouclier nodded.

“More behind them. How bad is the Lieutenant?”

“He can’t walk yet.” _Yet_. Surana would fix that, he had to.

“They say the Hero’s magic galvanized Denerim’s entire alienage to fight off the Blight,” the Captain recounted, drawing her sword and bracing her shoulders back against the stone behind her, taking slow, deep breaths. “Howe will walk. Who else will we get to run with you?” And then she smiled. She’d made a joke. Here, trapped in the Deep Roads and an army of Darkspawn being drawn their way intentionally by the noise, she was smiling and making glib comments.

“Recruit,” She admonished, and pushed her shield out to bump him. “Despair and we all die. Now I want you to throw something strong and painful… yes, at least a hundred yards. Aim straight and true down the mouth of the tunnel.”

Bouclier could sense the Darkspawn but now Connor could hear them. Scraping, rattling footsteps, growls and clicks like rabid animals. He felt the cold sweat inside his gloves, felt it fighting with the heavy warmth of the magma and sea water for purchase on his perspiring skin.

“What kind? I only know so many spells.” He’d thrown a fireball before, yes, but nothing like the cannon fire Commander Surana had lobbed so easily on the surface. A hundred yards didn’t leave him many options, but…

“You are the mage here, not I.” The Captain rebuked him, then nudged him again with her shield. “Make them angry, grunts fight like hens when angry: I want them to break on my arm.” Oh, so he wasn’t expected to just fell them all with a single spell then? That made things much easier.

“Okay.” He said, pulling away from her and rolling his shoulders back to see if he was able. He let his grip on his staff change and felt the silverite rod dip and spin over itself quickly, limbering his hands up. The sticky air of the Deep Roads made it impossible to recall the cold nights on the Imperial Highway, but he could try. He could try this.

“On three, I’ll cover you.” Bouclier explained, breathing deeply on purpose, legs pushing her body hard against the stone. She was rocking herself on purpose, bringing her heart-rate up as she flexed her arms. Connor thought she might start hitting her shield again like she had every other time he’d seen her fight, but noise was not what they wanted now. “Un… deux…”

“ _Three.._!” Connor shut his eyes. Stupid decision, but he shut his eyes and he and Bouclier both ran out from behind their cover. He felt his staff spin and the fire charring his insides flared, letting off a twisted spiral of magic that was seized up by the will in his heart and split through his arms. It twisted and corded and reimagined itself, finding Connor’s staff as he hurled the casting stone forward, launching a bolt from the serpentstone, then another from the back end when he pulled away. The staff moved in a practiced arc behind his back to fire again, and by the time he raised and felt his thumb launch the rod into a spin over his palm, the spell was at his wrist to meet it and come spiralling out down both ends of the weapon.

He slammed the staff end hard on the stone floor and felt the serpentstone scream with magic before belching half a dozen bolts of panic and fear. Violet screamed through the air and Connor’s mind swarmed behind them, plowing one electric bolt through a chest, catching another’s jagged sword to sear the hand that held it, shattering the rotted flesh of a leg, and the other three he could not follow but their effects he certainly heard.

“Do not stop!” Bouclier ordered, kneeling in front of him with her kite shield raised, sword down. Connor’s arms already had the staff forward and throwing another bolt, wild disbelief following behind the swing and pull of the familiar weapon. Two more blasts twisted through the air. They moved slowly, but obeyed the simple order they had to find the Darkspawn and hit them. Bolts from a mage’s staff never missed unless they were blocked, and the shard of awareness that flowed from him told Connor he even caught one genlock in its open mouth. “More behind them!”

“I-” he didn’t wonder why the Captain knelt while he swung and fired his magic down the cavern. There was no point advancing without the Commander and Nathaniel, and if anything moved past Bouclier then she would have to turn around and run back to stop them from reaching Connor. While the darkspawn were fifty yards away and bearing down he swung his staff to halt them with magic, and the Grey Warden had placed herself to defend him.

The spell resisted him because of his own fear. He had to tell himself, force himself, to make it happen. When it resisted again he felt his mouth open with a frustrated roar, and this time, _this time,_ his will overcame the twisted, slippery body of the spell. When he flung his arm out in front of him the ice spewed down, rings and twists painting themselves golden and blue across the ground where three of them settled in perfect alignment, almost unseen. He knew, somehow, that he’d done well when Bouclier loudly complained that _she_ wanted to kill them, not him.

“Leave some for me!” the Captain laughed again, Connor’s staff horizontal over her head as heavy ropes of lightning spewed out past the reach of the icy glyphs and struck the first genlock to reach them right through the eyes. He didn’t expect it to die, but didn’t complain about it either.

Bouclier was right, there _were_ more than the original seven, but Connor’s focus had to stay on the immediate threat because one of the Hurlocks braved the danger by flanking down and charging through one of his glyphs. He felt the spell trigger and looked in time to see a pillar of ice lock around the beast’s legs, releasing a hand from his staff to reach, grab, and torque his arm quickly. The ice exploded and shards of it bounced off Bouclier’s shield, black blood smearing the stones as the maimed creature rolled on its shoulders and flailed until it died. He’d never used the spell properly before, he’d known it for so long, but had never dared-

The other two glyphs triggered and he forgot what he’d been thinking of. He ripped and shattered both, taking out creatures he hadn’t seen coming. Connor felt his feet backing up, retreat whimpering at him despite the ready fact that there _was_ no retreat, there was nowhere to go: all that lay behind him was rubble and death.

“Excellent! Now support me!” Bouclier shouted, coming straight out of her crouch and appearing in his line of sight like Andraste herself. His lungs were heavy from the magic he’d spent, arms light from adrenaline. He heard a wet crunch as the first Darkspawn to come too close went flying off its feet from her shield, and the foolish one that flanked her was cut straight open from shoulder to hip. The Hurlock that stormed into her circle lost its head without raising its own sword to attack her properly, and she stomped one boot through the genlock that came out with teeth and twisted daggers. “Grunts! All of you! Your broodmothers were legless nugs!”

One genlock did slip past her guard and Connor’s reaction was not enough: he struck it with a bolt from his staff, leading into the second and third strikes as quickly as he could only to watch it stick a blade through the back of Bouclier’s thigh anyways. It angered him. He didn’t expect it to but that was what happened: fire flew off his palm and engulfed the wretched thing, grip restored on his staff as he pointed the head straight at the bleeding wound and told it to close or, Maker help him, he’d stitch it shut himself.

Bouclier’s laugh cooled his anger, as did watching her throw one darkspawn into the Hurlock behind it and both of them to come crashing down in a screaming heap. Her laughter died quickly though, and Connor was too slow again to realize why until it was almost too late.

It turned out that it was not his heartbeat making the world feel like it was jumping. It was not the adrenaline either. The pounding noise was not in his head, it was something with two twisted horns and the distorted face, mouth lolling open with blunt teeth and ropes of thick saliva that was surging towards them with wide, lumbering steps.

Ogre.

“Guerrin slow it!” Bouclier bellowed at him, fending off two and then three genlocks that piled themselves up against her shield, trying to tire her and stop her thrashing. Panic made his spells vanish, he couldn’t think of how to do any of it, magic became a different language he could not speak.

And then there came the Hurlock, ignoring Bouclier and her shield completely, with its black lizard’s tongue slobbering at the air as it raised a wicked blade at him and charged. Connor only just stepped around out of its way and, with only days of training to scare him into action, swung his staff’s back end up with all his strength. It should have broken bones but a plate of shapeless metal across the darkspawn’s chest meant he wrenched his own shoulder instead. The creature staggered and the mage was injured, gasping at the sudden pain and frantic to bring his staff around again, serpentstone crackling with lightning.

The darkspawn threw its head back, weight rolled to its toes, and shrieked. Connor didn’t understand until he saw the blood spilling down from under its breastplate and saw it spasm a second time, then crumble to its knees. Nathaniel passed a blood-splattered dagger over the Hurlock’s face and its head rolled off cleanly, his face scowling blackly at the menace he’d just ended.

“Flank the ogre, Guerrin!” The Grey Warden shouted at him, almost drowned out by the sudden roar of fire that exploded across the battle and cut across it. Connor looked and couldn’t see the Commander, but did watch the Ogre break its charge and reel back from the wall of flames between it and the Wardens.

Nathaniel struck his bare blades down through his belt and removed his bow in a smooth, easy motion, drawing the fletching of an arrow back to his ear. Connor would have noticed more, seen if he was standing straight or how many arrows he still had after the landslide, maybe even wondered if his bow would be able to handle much more stress after the rain and the sand, but he was just too damn scared.

What he _did_ look for, because everything frightened him now, was the Commander’s staff. It was behind him and still standing there lonesome and forgotten, head buried in the rocks. Although Connor had to go, he stopped just briefly and this time did not leave the Commander’s staff behind. He had to pull and lever it but the dragons loosed themselves from their prison, the dawnstone orb crackling from his unexpected touch. Then he turned and ran as wide a flank as the Deep Roads would allow, his own staff in hand and the Commander’s hooked onto the harness over his back. A mage did not _need_ a staff to cast magic, it just made things a hell of a lot easier.

A sharp, unnatural whistle cut the air and Connor almost fell over when a fireball blasted like thunder against the ogre’s shoulder, staggering the creature as it roared. Surana clearly did not need his staff.

Connor ran until he was just past the ogre and behind it. He saw no Darkspawn coming down this arm of the Roads but couldn’t sense them either in case they were hiding. Instead he turned, wrestled his fear into something he could use, and flung his hand out again like he had with Bouclier. The ground under just between the ogre and Bouclier’s position flared blue and gold, the spell almost failing when he threw it so far from himself, but it stuck and held fast over the stones.

He could hear a grinding, clicking noise behind him, something hissing, but couldn’t think it over too hard when he saw the ogre drop its head, one hand to the ground, and suddenly charge at the wall. The Warden Commander came into view just before his cover exploded in a shower of broken masonry, helmet on and his body curled into a duck and roll.

Connor didn’t question the white magic pouring off him like smoke this time, or the heavy helmet, or the shield on his arm, or the sword in his hand. His armour made sense for once, because whatever magic he was using allowed him to hold the shield like it was nothing, magic concentrating over the herald of his office before a stream of liquid fire poured off the shield and seared at the ogre’s feet. His sword cut the air and the lines of a paralysis glyph bloomed between the two of them, the ogre charging again like a bull only to catch itself in the trap.

For the first time in Connor’s life, sending a single mage to slay an archdemon suddenly made a great deal of sense.

Connor tried to come forward but almost fell over when he stopped short. The ogre broke out of the spell holding it and thrust its hand out where Surana was in easy reach, the Commander’s shield up and catching on the creature’s palm, it fingers closing tight around him. Connor saw blood splatter on the floor when Surana’s sword pierced out through the back of the ogre’s hand, but it lifted him off the ground just the same.

The stories of King Cailan roared through Connor’s mind and he swept his staff’s head down and then forward. His magic tore at the ground until the tiles ripped open and a blast of heavy stone raced through the air and took the ogre in its wide, drizzling jaw. It roared in outrage and threw Surana down, his sword gone and shield splitting down the middle when he landed on it, white magic lighting his path like a comet where he hit.

“Commander!” Connor sprinted for him, the ogre roaring again when something cut the air and Connor heard Bouclier’s war cry. He gave one brief look up and saw a black arrow protruding from the monster’s eye, its attention drawn by the taunting shouts from the Captain and the hunter who shot it again in its thick chest. It howled at them and charged.

Connor reached Surana, hands swimming with blue light as the Warden Commander pushed himself up on one arm, body twisted and his broken shield holding him down. When Connor touched him he felt two snapped ribs fuse back together, the wrenched muscle in his shoulder pulling back into place and draining its excess blood before it could swell. Surana did not lay quietly and heal either, his hand was pulling away at the shield, shoving the metal bars away. As soon as he saw the ragged split through the steel he tossed the broken thing down with a curse.

“I’m not leaving that sword down here,” he fumed, letting Connor help him to his feet as the white magic vanished around him for a second time. This time he wasn’t sick, he seemed too enraged for it as he breathed hard and shook himself violently under his helmet to get his focus back. Connor immediately reached over his shoulder as Surana’s clear eyes focused on the ogre again. Its darkspawn minions were dead on the ground, Bouclier dancing between its thick legs as Nathaniel circled, ducked, and fired whenever he saw a clear line to the monster’s neck or face. It was bleeding heavily but still fighting.

“Commander-” Surana took his staff without breaking his attention from the ogre. If the Warden Commander couldn’t sense darkspawn coming up behind them then Connor was almost happy to hand the dawnstone weapon over. The clicking sound scrapped by again but he couldn’t place it, taking a step back as Surana gave his staff a firm snap with his wrist and sent it spinning. It looked like he only needed two fingers to twirl the long weapon, the dragon heads walloping the air as they burst into bright red flames.

“One more hit to kill it and then we fight our way out of here.” That hissing- what was it?

“Yes, sir.” Connor took another step back, twisting his head, searching for that _sound_. A genlock in hiding? Some other kind of Deep Roads monstrosity? If only he’d known how simple the answer really was. If only _either_ mage had realized it.

Surana put his anger into the spell, the crimson lines dancing down his arm before he caught the staff mid-spin and thrust it forward. It was a powerful thrust, one he’d shown Connor how to do a few nights ago. He threw with his right hand and caught it again in his left before it flew out of his grip, effectively _‘ejecting’_ the spell from the rod and hammering anything that came within physical striking distance. All the Commander’s staff technically hit was air.

But that didn’t stop the crystal from exploding.

Connor saw the staff thrust and felt the magic surge, and then everything was painful brilliance and deafening noise. It was like the sun had awoken right there in front of him, engulfing the Warden Commander and ripping through Connor’s eyes like a sword. He felt himself fly backwards and scream, his senses watching magic cyclone and spiral out of control as the focus of the spell literally burst and cut the ground, disturbed the Veil itself.

His ears screamed with noise and when Connor realized he still had hands, he pressed them to his eyes. He was coughing and almost heaved, swimming with vertigo in the aftermath of the blast. He struggled. And he struggled. And finally he shouted a curse and reached through memories for white pearls and soft textures and poured his own startled magic out into his maimed eyes.

There was fire and something else, something raw and rank in the air. He’d been on the edge of a nearly-realized spell and taken the brunt of it: the commander had turned his will to fire and that fire had mangled both of them.

He almost lost his spell. Both of them. They’d both- oh no… Andraste no…

Connor cried out and poured his will into his eyes. He would not go blind. He would not let the magic take his eyes, because if he lost them he would not be able to help the Grey Wardens escape from this place. He would not be a blind burden down here in the dark. Maker help and Andraste guide him Connor Guerrin was not going to die blind and abandoned in the Deep Roads!

He felt his mana surge, painting a perfect image in his mind. He remembered lectures, blackboards, textbooks, his own experiences. He remembered the Inquisition soldier blinded at Haven by embers in her eyes. He remembered the dwarven mason whose eye was gouged by stonework at Skyhold. He remembered his fellow mage after the death of the Elder One, blinded by magic.

All of them had seen again. Connor had made sure they could see again.

He lowered his hands, felt the threads of magic. He saw his eyes but they were not his, they were burned and mutilated and the spell was tethered to their base. One in each hand, because he didn’t have time to go slowly. He spun the magic, twisted the threads, knots around each little vein and tiny fold, spirals and loops and threads which caught on one another for support, a lattice of delicate light that soothed pain and restored structure, pinpoint, replace, restore, and…

If he did it wrong he would not be able to fix it. When a wound was raw you could heal it, but like Zevran’s leg which Connor had been too scared to tackle, once the spell was secure and finished it could not be undone. Zevran would have needed a knife to reopen the wound, Connor refused to burn his eyes out again.

He tied it off, he didn’t know how to do more. He felt pressure on his eyes and sank the magic deeply into his own skull. The pain was gone. The muscles around his eyelids convulsed, tried to work. He blinked clumsily, then again, one eye at a time. He felt them with his fingers, round and firm, and blinked again.

He lowered his hands and saw darkness. Eyes open, darkness. No.

Tears crawled out of him, the ducts were fine. Tears wept out of desperation and he blinked and-

Shadows.

He blinked again, rubbed his eyes from the inside, fumbled to stand.

Shadows. Depth. One eye and then the other, there was motion when he rose from his knees. A shadow that resembled a hand, became his hand, his glove and the sleeve of his robe. He looked up and felt dizzy, but he was alive and the burns on his face, the heat that had blackened part of his robe, it didn’t matter. He could see.

“Connor!” Bouclier’s voice startled him, as did the hulking form surging towards him. He reached for his staff and fumbled it, dropping it with a loud clatter. Human hands grabbed him and he blinked, dizzy, trying to focus.

Eyes. Wide nose. Thick lips. Soft chin. Twisted hair dirty with landslide filth.

“Captain.” Connor stammered, eyes numb and struggling for focus. Either he could see her armour or her hair, not her face. “I- It’s getting better, I can see.”

“Your face-”

“My eyes, the spell burnt my eyes.”

“Maker watch over us, what was that blast?”

“His staff…” Connor trailed off. He reached blindly and felt Bouclier’s wrist and arm, nudging her. “Where is he?”

Bouclier ducked and his vision swam trying to follow her, but it stabilized faster when she reappeared, holding Connor’s staff out for him to take. He could see her face and her hair at the same time, the griffon on her chest was bright but blurry.

“This way, we haven’t much time.”

She led him and Connor needed that hand-hold. He felt clumsy and stupid, and realized his whole body was shaking. He heard noise and then he heard words, and it took too long for Connor to realize why.

“Breathe, for Andraste’s sake, Soren, _breathe_.” He was. Breathing was not the Commander’s problem at all. He saw Nathaniel’s shocked face when Bouclier led Connor close, but his attention went down to the _heat_ radiating from the Warden’s knees.

Nathaniel had thrown the Commander’s helmet off and from the outside, amazingly, he looked uninjured. He was awake and laying on his back but was choking in agony, air wheezing from his strangled throat and sucking through his nose. He moved one leg and then the other weakly under his armoured skirt, kicking weakly as his right hand clawed at the ground under him, his left trembling and giving weak convulsions.

The heat was not real heat. As in, it wasn’t the heat from a fire. It was a heat that made Connor’s inner fire feel cold and weak in comparison, like it was being siphoned off to feed what was below him. He dropped to his knees and put a hand first to Surana’s throat: the buttons and toggles of his armour had been undone, possibly by Nathaniel because the Commander looked like he was choking. His heartbeat was erratic, thundering madly, and the way his eyes shifted back and forth wildly told him he was almost as blind as Connor had been minutes ago.

“ _Heal him!”_ Nathaniel shouted, “What are you waiting for, Guerrin! Maker’s mercy, help him!”

“I know what this is.” Connor whispered. He knew what this was. “I can’t. Where’s his staff?”

“Hang the bloody staff and _heal him!_ ” The Warden shouted again, ignoring what he’d said.

“It can’t be-”

“Heal him, Guerrin, or I’ll slit your damned throat!” Maybe it was the fatigue or the stress or being in the deep roads or nearly being blinded that did it, but Connor didn’t argue with Nathaniel. He should have. If he’d been more like himself he would have blubbered and argued and been afraid and tried every so very hard to explain himself. But he already knew that wouldn’t work. He’d known these men long enough to know it absolutely would not work.

“Sorry, sir.” He said instead, keeping his dizzy eyes on Nathaniel, and placed his hand down on Surana’s chest, blue light collecting and pushing briefly down int-

Surana _screamed_. Connor cut the spell before it could do more than touch him, hands up and light gone, but Surana’s scream still carried him into a full-bodied twist, his strength failing without the continuing pain and dropping him back to the broken floor. Howe was horrified, Bouclier backed away with a hand over her mouth, and Connor quickly and as firmly as he could took Surana’s left hand and started trying to remove the gauntlet.

He’d thrown the staff with his right hand, catching it in his left. When Connor pulled the leather and silverite away the skin was raw and wet, fingers held stiff with pain and trembling desperately.

 _‘Treat with elfroot and wrap in bandages soaked in a mild solution of lyrium and water.’_ From weeks ago the same voice as the elf laying in agony in front of him came back. Connor gently laid his fingertips on the braided silverite at the inner edge of Surana’s arm and let a delicate thread of mana probe into the muscle. He didn’t try to _fix_ anything, but the Commander groaned and flinched anyways. Connor was firm because he had to be and found what he needed.

“They’re deep.” He reported, too scared of all of this to know what to do about it. “Not like the old burns on his hands, it wasn’t him doing too much on his own it was-”

“Lieutenant.” Bouclier’s voice interrupted him and they both looked up. The Captain was standing there with Surana’s staff. With the remains of Surana’s staff.

The dragons had blown clean away from each other, the staff unwrapped and folded back, partially melted until it resembled a desperate Y-shape.

“All the magic he poured into that spell concentrated at the crystal,” Connor felt his numb mouth explain. “When it shattered, it all backlashed straight through him.” These were mana burns. These could not be healed. If they had been shallow and only marked the top layer of his skin then Connor could have understood Nathaniel forcing him to heal the Commander for the sake of getting him on his feet again so they could get out of here, but Connor didn’t know the nature of the burns well enough to say what would happen if he forced Surana through that _much_ pain when he was already frantic and weak.

But why _was_ he so…? His legs kept kicking, weak, driving his heels into the ground only to lose strength… No matter what Nathaniel said he wouldn’t calm, he…

“Why are you making that face?” Bouclier asked, and Connor’s eyes fell out of focus before he could pull them back around and look at the Captain. “Guerrin, why?”

“Get him off his back,” Connor said in a rush, quickly laying his hands both down on Surana’s torso. It was just dousing magic, just to see what was wrong, and when it penetrated the armour the Commander didn’t react to it like he had at his arm. His skin, his chest, his bones, his heart and lungs and liver and gut and-

“ _Nng!_ ” Surana twisted and almost came out from under his and Nathaniel’s hands, Connor quickly holding and trying to make him turn over his right arm, lifting the injured left.

“His back-”

“What?” Nathaniel fumbled, rising enough to move and try to help ease the injured mage over.

“His back is burnt! He can’t breathe because all his weight is coming down on it- move him!”

They rolled him as carefully as they could, but quickly. As soon as Surana came down on his front Connor felt and heard him suck in a deep breath, exhaling a cry of open pain. But he stopped writhing, and he started breathing hard and fast trying to calm himself down.

Connor fought the dizziness from his blurring vision and tried to find his own belt, opening the pouches and digging his fingers in looking for his supplies. He only had two bundles of elfroot, certainly more than they might have needed, but laid out not nearly enough to cover the Commander’s entire back, shoulder, and arm. He didn’t have enough bandages either, or any reason to believe between the four of them they had enough water to lose an entire skin to dilute a mana potion in.

But he did have several small bottles of red potion, and two deep wooden jars of salve. He opened one of those jars now and with his glove off rubbed a dab of it across his fingertips, gently brushing it down over the Commander’s burnt wrist and palm, taking care with the knuckles and nail beds.

“If you can’t heal it,” Bouclier asked, “How do we help him?”

“We get him out of here and someplace where I can treat him.” Connor answered, tempted but unwilling to unbuckle the Commander’s armour right here in the middle of a quiet battlefield. Once they took him out of his armour there would be no going back in, and if he had to just lay on the ground the next time they encountered darkspawn then the silverite might be the only thing that kept him alive…

“We need to get out before they blow the entrances.” Nathaniel said quietly.

“They must think we’re dead.” Bouclier’s voice was heavy.

“The Inquisition will, yes, but not the others. Oghren will demand our arms, Zevran our bodies.”

“You mean they’ll come for us?” She asked.

“The Inquisition don’t have the manpower or supplies here to hold out with open Roads beneath them. Those three might force the issue, but it’ll mean the six of us fighting from here all the way to the Imperial Highway to escape.”

“If they find us,” Connor finished.

“If we find them.” Nathaniel echoed.

“Well I haven’t heard my Calling yet, so I’m not dying down here.” Bouclier said sternly. “Recruit, do you have anything for the Commander’s pain?”

“Only these, Captain.” Connor answered, listening and making use of his voice here and there, but he was focused.

The Commander was very much awake, and now that he was able to breathe again he seemed more lucid. When he blinked his eyes were sluggish, but clear, and Connor carefully wrested the small cork from the healing potion in his hand, working one arm down to try and lift Surana’s face to his injured left. It put pressure on his right side, meaning he could handle the additional pain.

He tried to pull himself around once he realized what was happening, solid proof that _yes_ , he was self-aware. The Commander didn’t try saying anything, just opened his mouth and swallowed willingly when Connor poured the contents down for him. He closed his eyes, laid his head back down, took several deep breaths, and…

“Nate… will scout.” His voice was dry and cracked, thick like it was lodged deep in the back of his throat. “Gen… vive…” It was hard for him to say, but her surname would have been worse. “Guard.” He took a breath after that and the potion may have been effecting him, because he opened his eyes one much slower than the other.

“I’ll carry you.” Connor offered. Nathaniel immediately said yes.

The Hero of Ferelden said nothing, just closed his eyes and kept breathing.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> According to my playthroughs Surana is an Arcane Warrior + Spirit Healer, he's also level 28+ and was not going to single-handedly fight them out of the deep roads haha not this time suckers


	17. The Deep Dark Roads

Nathaniel was limping.

Connor had spent two weeks staggering behind the Grey Warden, he knew as soon as they started moving that Nathaniel Howe was still injured and just stubbornly forcing his way through it. There was no ease when he placed his feet between chunks of rubble and dead ogre, the careful tread of his boots was something he earned through determination instead of habit. He was still able to move swiftly and quietly, but no matter how much Connor hoped to see the hunter slip and vanish behind the low shadows of the deep roads, he was always in easy view. He kept his bow out and down, an arrow knocked and two more in his firing hand, and he led them away from the charred remains of the battle.

For such a tall man and despite his injuries however, Warden Howe was still desperately soft with his steps. His limp only showed visually as he vanished from Connor’s range of sound. Easily seen but not to be heard, as long as he got the jump on whatever came up in their path they would never hear him coming.

Captain Bouclier was tireless as they moved. The Captain’s armour didn’t allow her to carry on nearly as softly as Nathaniel, but with barely a hand or high signal from the Warden ahead she could freeze instantly and hold herself for what Connor assumed was indefinitely.  She kept her sword and shield at the ready as they moved, frequently checking back with Connor as he brought up the far rear.

Bouclier and Howe had decided that the landslide they’d crawled and kicked their way out of was north. They’d been facing north when drawing the Darkspawn to the surface, and the cave-in had rushed south towards them before pulling them into the earth. That made the passage they were in now a north-south arm of tunnel, and south was where they would find the other four entrances back up to the surface.

They’d had two choices: dig in at the absolute furthest point from safety and blindly hope for rescue, or get moving and head right into the nest, holding out hope that their possible rescue force helped them fight their way out.

Even if it meant he had to carry the Hero of Ferelden’s shocked and burnt body on his back, Connor was thankful that the Grey Wardens had unanimously chosen to move on. There was so much to process and think about that Connor was at peace throwing physical exertion on top of everything. Running he could sort of do, and really this was just fast, heavy walking.

Commander Surana’s gear had been split between Nathaniel and Bouclier to lighten Connor’s burden. Each Warden had taken a skin of water and a portion of his rations for weight’s sake. His shield had been split down the middle and his staff blown into a mangled piece of blackened metal. Bouclier had the Commander’s winged helmet on because Connor had agreed that the weight and darkness of it would probably _not_ help the Commander cope with his situation if they stuffed it back on his head. Although she admitted it was tight the winged helm gave the Captain an unnecessary boost to her height, plus extra protection she would probably need later.

Nathaniel had taken a second belt of supplies off the commander’s waist, admitting openly that Connor _should_ have been the one to keep it instead. Connor had taken a look through some of the items before they started walking. They included the Commander’s medical supplies: several potions for fatigue and mana regeneration, bandages, wooden pieces for bracing broken limbs, ground herbs, and a trove of important magical components- most of which had been reduced to dust by the backfired spell.

Nathaniel had also retrieved the Commander’s sword and given no explanation for why it was so important. He’d told Connor severely to make sure Surana _knew_ they hadn’t left the blade behind if he woke up again.

“ _When_ he wakes up again,” Nathaniel corrected himself in a bitter voice.

Connor could have corrected him again but didn’t. He sincerely doubted Surana was asleep.

Nathaniel was limping, but at least he was up and mobile. Connor’s eyes were working, a true relief, and the dizzy spells had subsided after Bouclier ordered him to eat a portion of his rations and drink sparingly from his waterskin. The dried ram and spoonful of sweet apple preserve did him a lot of good, and carefully lifting the Warden Commander onto his back ended up being easier than anticipated.

Well, easier for Connor anyways. He heard himself apologizing softly when Surana groaned through his teeth and swallowed a sharper sound of pain when he was moved, but there was simply no helping it.

Bless the Maker for not making the Hero of Ferelden a hulking Qunari, a three hundred pound dwarf, or someone so very much taller than Connor. Even between him and Zevran Surana was noticeably short for an elf, and despite having the strength to ram an entire sword through an ogre’s hand and the raw determination to get back up after being thrown straight at the ground- he was small. His feet didn’t drag the way Nathaniel’s might have and Connor could avoid staggering for the most part. He couldn’t run, no, but neither could Bouclier without her armour and mail rattling loudly in the stone tunnel. They moved swiftly down the path Nathaniel scouted for them, but not in a blind dash.

The Commander by far, by far, had it the worst of them all. He knew the Commander wasn’t asleep or simply unconscious because he felt Surana tense up and try to move every time he had to take a particularly large step around or over something. He tried to avoid jostling the poor man too much, able to hear when the elf on his back hissed or clicked his teeth in pain. He kept trying to flex his burnt left hand where Connor had applied healing salve earlier, testing himself although it would only hurt him more. His right hand moved much easier even with his gauntlet still on but it was the opposite with his legs. His right was in worse shape than the left, Connor’s senses could feel the latent magic slowly, slowly calming down around him.

Connor didn’t have the time or security to help him- although with Surana’s kit he did in fact have the supplies now. The Commander’s body felt like a stone accidentally tossed in a bread oven. His limbs were singing with radiant magic, too over-saturated for Connor’s own power to come near without making things much worse. All the energy he’d summoned had backfired physically through him and burnt through his skin to escape. He was only lucky that the magic had fled outwards, not in and flayed his insides.

Horrible thought. Connor kept moving.

Howe had not been impressed with Connor’s explanation of things either. The crystal in the Commander’s staff had no doubt cracked during the landslide, but Howe explainedto him shrewdly that the Warden Commander had broken staves before in the past and _always_ discarded them without incident. Connor bit his tongue and did not mention how angry Surana had been during the fight, or how his focus had been only for the ogre and not to make sure the staff he was given was meant to be wielded. If the stone managed to break then most of the time a staff would simply cease to work at all, but a partial crack was different. It could still channel and react to magic used on it, but it would be unstable, and if it burst…

More horrible thoughts. They had to keep moving.

“ _Do you speak at all?”_

The question surprised him. One, it was a strange question for Captain Bouclier to ask him because Connor thought he’d spoken plenty around her before now. Two, she asked the question and he didn’t understand it. Except he did understand it. It took him entirely too long to realize she’d spoken to him in Orlesian and not the Trade Tongue he was so used to.

“Um, I-” he stammered, “I think so-? Only a little?” Orlesian and other languages had been optional areas of study in the Circle. Jylan had liked the sounds of Ander and had taken to it quite happily before submitting to the Rite of Tranquility, but Enchanter Leorah had never emphasized language learning at all with him. Connor hadn’t had any reason to use any more than passing Orlesian phrases for the sick or injured in years. “When I was a child, yes.” When he’d been at Redcliffe…

“Your mother is Orlesian, no?” Bouclier asked, her attention facing ahead of them and keeping sight of Nathaniel between shards of red rubble. The roads were quiet, warm with the heat of glowing magma on either side of the wide stone tunnel. She did not speak loudly. “Hawke mentioned it. An Orlesian noble who married the Fereldan whose lands the two families both claimed?”

“I can’t imagine why he’d bring it up.” Connor answered, concerning Hawke. “But yes. Arlessa Isolde of Redcliffe, now Denerim.”

“He was trying to explain how you are a company of ex-nobility.” She explained, and Connor rolled his eyes dramatically. No, the Captain didn’t see him do it. No, the Commander probably didn’t notice it either. But he rolled his eyes anyways. “The Howes lost their status during the Blight, the Hawkes’ connection to Kirkwall’s Amell family disintegrated after the death of Grand Cleric Elthina, and you were taken to the Circle.”

“My family wasn’t stripped of anything though, it’s not quite the same.” The Guerrins were still a very powerful family in Ferelden. “What about you, Captain?”

She laughed at him.

“My family is from a small little place in Emprise du Lion. Nowhere you’ve ever heard of, I’m sure. I was just curious if you still spoke your mother’s tongue.”

“Not anymore I’m afraid, but maybe if we get out of this I’ll work on brushing it back up.”

“I think that would be a fine thing.”

The whole point behind the explosions and noise of their attack on the northern entrance had been to draw the Darkspawn away from their frenzy in the south. Connor was thankful for every few minutes of peace the Maker allowed them, and the blessing in large part was Nathaniel’s doing.

Because the plan did work. There were plenty of darkspawn to be had.

They came to a place where the tunnel had taken heavy damage. Bouclier explained softly that the shattered columns and great chunks of roof and floor had doubtless been blown apart by Dwarven gollums and explosives trying to defend the thaig before it fell. The great pieces of shattered rock provided an area of heavy cover for them as they approached, and that fact made Nathaniel very nervous.

He signalled a stop and then gestured around to the right. Bouclier led and Connor carefully picked a path between the piles of debris to follow her. The heat was intense near the walls and Connor felt himself perspire as the deep hum of molten rock played with his senses. They both checked back at Nathaniel, who made a gesture even Connor could interpret as ‘ _hide’_. Bouclier used her sword to prod the ground where rock and sand had collected and formed a bridge through the lava, playing to Connor’s sharp fear that if they stepped off the stone of the road they’d sink down into a fiery death.

They heard a wet crackle. A sound somewhere between an animal voice and grinding stone. It rattled through the hot, still air of the Deep Roads and then echoed away. It repeated a few seconds later.

The ground was firm. It was hot through the soles of Connor’s boots as he quickly carried Commander Surana across into a blown-out section of wall, but it held.

Connor could believe that some great blast hard carved out this side of the tunnel. The walls were cracked and the debris that had covered the lava had obviously come from this same bowl-shaped indent. Twenty feet high but only six across, he couldn’t tell how deep it was but the crack had forced the column directly in front to collapse and form the cover. Bouclier climbed in first because her armour shone in the red light, Connor following as she crouched down low and small into the wall. The Commander braced one arm on the tunnel wall as Connor let both of them down as quietly as he could, but Surana said nothing about being moved around like this.

They heard the rattle again, a gurgle following it and then a loud shriek.

Nathaniel was a shadow climbing over the chunks of rock, bow in hand as he found a dark crevasse and slipped out of sight.

The Darkspawn appeared at once.

First they were genlocks, those short, stubby monsters with too many teeth and pointed ears. They moved with an ease that made Connor’s stomach churn, stout limbs carrying them as they hefted crude crossbows and sniffed eagerly at the dank air. One signalled for others behind it to hurry forward, and they took off at an excited pace down the tunnel. Several hurlocks were not far behind them, though these creatures walked and carried their naked blades with them.

When the ogre came into view Connor dropped his head. He didn’t want to see the moment they saw them hiding barely out of sight. He knew from the tension on his shoulder that Surana was holding his head up and watching even if Connor himself couldn’t bear it. For whatever wild and insane reason that actually calmed him down. Even injured to the point where his own magic was out of reach the Warden Commander wasn’t ready to lay down and passively let himself get eaten. If it even came to that then the Archmage would probably summon another fireball from its belly, pain or no, just to make sure the ogre died for its trouble.

It was quiet. The only sounds came from the Darkspawn, growls and deep rumbles. They shrieked and made deep rattles, one of the hurlocks opening its black mouth and croaking for several seconds before it started walking again.

The Darkspawn passed. They actually walked away. At least thirty of them had gone right past the Wardens’ hiding place and Connor couldn’t believe it. He looked up and he watched, marvelling. Grey Wardens could sense Darkspawn but maybe it didn’t work the other way around?

Connor dared not move until he saw Nathaniel reappear and signal for them to come out. He had to move first and heard the Commander give a weak grunt as he was lifted up again. Bouclier tried to offer help as they crept back down to the tunnel’s broken floor and regrouped with Nathaniel. The open and worried look on Nathaniel’s face told Connor enough, and he looked down, turning his head away from the side where the Commander’s head was over his shoulder.

“We’ll get through this,” the Warden said to his commander. “But we’re going to do it in a way that makes sure you survive with us. Give me hell when we get to safety, Soren, not before. Connor, put him down.”

Connor knelt. He didn’t know what Nathaniel wanted done exactly, but both Grey Wardens helped set Commander Surana down on his front. He hissed and grit his teeth, gasping when he had to put weight on his limbs for a few seconds and then stubbornly held that position on his knees.

“Just rest,”

“Just _shut up_ …” Surana grunted, his burnt arm shaking. Nathaniel curled his lips to say something but then changed his mind, looking at Connor instead.

“Connor, how much do you know about these burns?” He asked. “In general.”

“Only what he told me before the rest of you came to Skyhold.” He had seen them _before_ yes, but never really understood how a mage’s own mana could burn them. “If it were only his hands then-”

“Yes, yes I know all that.” Nathaniel interrupted. “But it’s all the magic just not going back through to the fade that’s the problem, isn’t it?” Connor wasn’t sure. “How many glyphs do you know?” The question made him jump.

“Uhm- about half a dozen, I think?” That he could use competently at least, but- “Why?”

“Do you know how to neutralize magic? If I draw it out for you, could you copy it?”

“How would you know what that looks like?” Connor stupidly asked.

“I’ve been in his service for ten years, Guerrin, I know what to step on and which ones not.” That… that seemed like a perfectly reasonable answer.

“I’ve never used it.” He finally got around to answering Nathaniel’s question. “I know the symbols, but-”

“Draw it on him. Or under him, however the damned thing works.” Connor’s mind went blank, but that was okay because Nathaniel’s attention was back on the Warden Commander, who was still stubbornly hunched over on his hands and knees. “Every time you think of it you’ve already mangled your hands to the point where you can’t even _think_ magic too hard without it hurting. _This_ is why we’ve been on you to recruit a new mage.”

“Keep talking.” Surana grunted, teeth locked and a very mean, pain-wracked look on his face. “Laugh it up.”

“I’m not laughing.” Nathaniel told him gently, and he almost sounded sorry.

Connor was feeling weak at the request. He’d thought he’d left his sweats behind, like joining the Grey Wardens would suddenly make his heart stop doing that restless kick-kick under his ribs or keep his palms from weeping wet, clammy anxiety. His skin felt soured with apprehension and he was struggling very hard to find the words. He looked at the Commander’s shaking, clearly hurting body, and felt himself try to piece together his worries.

“You know it’ll hurt him, right?” The words rushed out. “It’ll drain him, there’s no avoiding that-”

“Recruit, as your commanding officer I’m _ordering_ you to do it.” Nathaniel was firm. Connor didn’t know how to reject the order without getting himself either thrown out of the Wardens or simply run through with the same blade Howe had already threatened him with before.

Surana _could_ speak but he said nothing. Maybe he approved or agreed but he didn’t communicate that to Connor in any way. He slowly crept to his feet with Nathaniel’s order ringing in his ears, licking his lips nervously and trying to make himself think through this.

“Ready one of those lyrium potions, he’ll need it,” he said in a hushed voice. “Don’t let it come too close to the glyph.” Nathaniel twisted and started looking through his belt for one.

He’d never done this before. He’d seen the glyph, traced it, drawn it, seen it used plenty of times before, but to actually cast and hold it himself was something he hadn’t dared to try before. It was from that book back in Skyhold, the one from Kinloch Hold, the one with the dented cover and the bloodstains on the binding and the rude little comments from an apprentice from years before Connor’s time. The book opened in his mind and Connor moved back a little bit more, stirring Bouclier to her feet so the captain could shuffle out of his way. The last thing either Surana or Connor needed was for him to get caught in his own glyph.

What was the logic behind a spell that dispelled magic? He didn’t know. The book had waxed poetic about the power of the Templars and their lyrium-granted abilities, but it had been decidedly vague on the mechanical side of things. How a spell cast with mana could negate all magic regardless of source didn’t have to make _sense_ , it simply had to _work._

The key to it was control, and control meant a resolute will that would not waver. This was not easy to muster. He had to trick himself into doing it because otherwise it simply wouldn’t work. No, he didn’t want to cast the spell under Commander Surana, but he also didn’t want to be stabbed by Lieutenant Howe either. He wanted to be stabbed a little bit less than he wanted to be thrown out of the Grey Wardens for insubordination by Howe, and those two negative feelings overwhelmed the first one. If he didn’t want to be stabbed and cast out of the Wardens then Connor had to perform the spell, and only under that irrational pressure was he able to cast it.

He didn’t use his staff for it, he could have, but some things came together better between free hands. He swept his hands over each other in a circle one way, casting lines of white magic between his fingers, then twisted them in the opposite direction to bend the spell to his will, then pushed the pattern of brilliant light away from him with his right palm. It floated through the air like a figment of thought, then blossomed with white light on the floor between Surana’s palms. It was narrow and spread down under him to his knees, but it was enough.

The Archmage flinched and turned his face away, but then with a startled, painful gasp his arms folded and dropped his head forward. Bouclier moved to try and help him, energy twisting around his burnt arm and the opposite leg, draining out from under his armour. The spell turned him ghostly pale and sucked the blood from his lips, but Connor held it until he heard the Commander utter the word _‘stop’_ between sharp breaths.

He swept the glyph away with a gesture and Nathaniel immediately swept forward, a blue lyrium potion glowing faintly in his hand as he wrenched the cork out and held it out. Surana’s hand grasped the bottle and he forced it to his own mouth, Connor clearly able to see the blind, unfocused nature of his eyes. He was sitting on his folded legs and trembling from the stress on his body, so Connor knew what would happen before the Commander finished swallowing the potion.

Lyrium potions were not _kind_ on the body. Surana knew that and either just didn’t care or was in too much pain to think clearly. Connor had felt something like liquid sunlight when he’d drunk a diluted version of the same potion, and yes there was the relative difference in power and experience between them but that didn’t mean-

Surana heaved and spat blue on the ground, sky-coloured foam clinging to his lips as it looked like he briefly lost control of his limbs and pitched forward over Bouclier’s arm and shoulder. He groaned wordlessly and the Orlesian Warden looked to Connor in horror.

“Get him down,” Connor said, too disappointed in what was happening to panic over it. “Even if it helped he’s still sitting on his burnt leg.” He helped arranged the Commander’s legs, feeling through the soft patches of his armour for any changes and finding very few. Some of the magic had dissipated yes, but either Connor hadn’t cast the spell well enough or Surana had made him stop too soon for it to work completely.

“Drink.” He said more firmly than he meant to. He uncapped one of the skins hanging off him and squeezed a splash into Surana’s mouth. When the Commander failed to swallow Connor cupped a hand under his cheek, against his mouth, and poured more water until he could force it into the Warden’s mouth. He swallowed this time and took several more mouthfuls without as much assistance. When he spluttered Connor pulled the water back and capped it again.

“Nathaniel.” He said, holding his hand out but receiving no reply. When he looked, Nathaniel was on his feet, dragging one hand back through his filthy hair and walking away from them. “Nathaniel,” Connor repeated, louder this time so the Warden turned and looked at him. His hand was still out, and he beckoned him. “The potion, he needs it.”

“I shouldn’t have made you do that,” Nathaniel whispered in a hallowed tone as he gave Connor the half-remaining contents of the lyrium potion. Rather than answer him Connor bent down and, like the water before, coaxed Surana to take it into his mouth and swallow. “You didn’t want to.”

“No, I didn’t.” Connor grumbled back, distracting himself by twisting around and feeling through the pockets and satchels still attached to his belt. He found the leather roll of tools from Skyhold and removed them. Each was gritty with sand and salt water but he pulled out what he needed without hesitation. Some of the hard bread from his rations, ripped between his fingers and then worked into smaller and smaller crumbs by a long flat edge of metal used for preparing herbs and salves. He worked the bread on a small metal plate and then reached for one of the tonics in the kit, controlling the nervous shake in his hands as he poured several drops of the sour smelling black brew over the dry crumbs.

“He’s a healer, let him heal.” Bouclier said, “It was worth trying, Howe, but the glyph only hurt him and it didn’t help.”

“I _know_ that!”

“Keep your voice _down_.” While the two Wardens growled at each other Connor capped the black bottle and gently removed two leaves of elfroot, placing one over the palm of his hand and gently scraping the blackened bread into it. He minced up the other with a smear of the spat-out lyrium potion from the floor. No, he did not usually recommend reusing medicine someone had already spat out, but this was the Deep Roads and Connor added a splash of water before adding the reagents to the bread in his hand. He squeezed and wet the mixture until it formed a paste, the elf-root tingling against his palm, and then he laid it down and firmly rolled it as small and tight as he could. It should have had powdered arbour blessing and then been poached in a simmering tea of embrium but- wait, no, he did have embrium. He hadn’t seen it but yes, that was definitely it. He took one of the dried red flowers and unfurled it, placing the elfroot wrap inside and splashing the whole thing with water until he felt confident he could roll it together without tearing it to pieces.

Still should have been poached and filled with barely or millet instead of old bread but this was the Deep Roads _and_ an emergency.

“What is that?” Nathaniel finally asked him, and Connor was too focused on not letting his hands shake to answer.

“Deathroot.” Surana’s cracked voice whispered instead. “Sleep.” Connor looked down at him, for a long, slow moment, and then addressed Surana properly instead of looking up at Nathaniel.

“You’re injured, you’re in too much pain, and I’ve used up all the time we have here already. You can’t use your magic, sir, I’ve felt you try it a few times already. If you force it then your heart will stop, or your kidneys will explode, or something else equally awful and terrifying will happen because that just seems to be how these things go, isn’t it?” He stumbled, swallowed, and licked his chapped lips in the warm air. “I won’t force you to take it but it’ll put you to sleep and when you wake up maybe we’ll be long out of here. Wouldn’t that be better than this?” And then, just because he couldn’t take it any longer:

“Commander, this is the skill you _recruited me for._ ” Because Connor Guerrin worked with the dying and the hopeless and the helpless, and no Warden Commander Soren Surana of Amaranthine was not quite at that stage yet, but he was close to it. He had the last one seared down to his very bones and Connor knew how to make that pain and awareness fade away for a few hours. And _only_ a few hours. He wasn’t- he would never _poison_ the Hero of Ferelden if he had any alternatives at all, and Connor did. The alternative was to escape.

“Give it to him then,” Nathaniel said, and Connor failed to bite his tongue.

“Not your decision, Lieutenant.” He snapped back, still watching Surana as the Warden Commander closed his eyes to ride out another wave of pain. His good hand clenched for a moment and Connor felt the tug between his ribs of the Archmage trying to cast something- but then he winced and lost the spell with a gasp. “Commander we need to move, and I need your answer.”

“Something’s coming.” Bouclier said, rising to her feet. “Not Darkspawn.”

“I hear them too,” Howe whispered, giving Connor no reply.

“Commander,” He repeated, and Surana looked at him again with those foggy blue eyes.

“I’m not dying down here.” The Warden Commander uttered harshly. Then he nodded and his head came up as far as he could manage through the trembling pain. “Give it.”

Connor’s jar of sweet preserves came open and he took a thick swipe of it onto the medicinal bundle. Embrium was a sleep aid best used in tea, Elfroot was a general healing agent able to sooth pain, lower inflammation, and promote healthy circulation. Deathroot was poisonous, but in small, careful doses could cause someone to lose consciousness. The bread was simply filler and the preserve something sweet to help the medicine go down. The whole thing was an inch long, difficult to swallow, but with the syrup and a few more mouthfuls of water, Surana took it without complaint.

There was no immediate effect; that was not how medicine worked. Surana swallowed and laid his head down, hissing softly in pain as Connor finally looked up for where the other two wardens had gone.

They were back at the open crack in the wall where Connor and Bouclier had hidden, the Captain had her shield up and Howe was standing with an arrow at full-draw.

Something made the sand at Howe’s feet pucker and rise, and the hunter took a smooth step back before Bouclier stabbed the end of her sword straight down. Blood welled up black and sticky from the sand, and it gave a weak screech.

The cry echoed and repeated itself from a dozen different places, and Connor gasped in fright when something wet and burning slammed into his shoulder from above, splattering something hot against his ear and muddy hair. He turned to face the wall of collapsed rock and threw a spell off his right hand without thinking it through. Five liquid ribbons of electricity shocked off his fingers and danced through the warm air, peppering down blindly on the stone before one of them shocked through a wet, eyeless grey body perched on the stone ledge immediately above him.

The creature was the size of a cat, hairless, almost headless except for a round, fanged sucker at the end of its long neck. Its body was shaped like a plucked chicken but with a long tail behind it. It shrieked when Connor’s magic hit it and then jumped straight down on top of him.

He covered himself with one arm and felt the _heavy_ creature land on him, clawed, spindly arms gripping tight and scratching over the woven leather of his robe. It smelled of something noxious and Connor’s free hand went for his belt, found his dagger, and on the draw he raked the wickedly sharp edge across the monster’s pale underbelly. Its skin split open cleanly with a smell that made him want to retch, and he managed to throw the thing down with a wet splat.

Grit and stone trapped in the folds of the collapsed column rattled, more heads and eager chatter. Surana swore something from the ground behind him and Connor chanced a panicked look back at where the Commander was struggling with sheer determination to crouch on his good leg, the white and gold hilt of his belt knife clutched in his good hand.

“Deepstalkers,” Surana growled, and then his eyes fell out of focus and his resolve faltered, almost dropping him to the ground again until he caught himself on his good hand. It could have been pain that made him do that, but it was _probably_ the deathroot.

Connor grabbed his staff off the ground and sheathed the dagger clumsily. Another deepstalker ripped its way out of a black crevasse in the rocks and Connor was too startled for magic: his staff arced in a fast, swift windmill and took the thing in its narrow head, then he slammed the end of it down with an electric crackle through the creature’s back. It didn’t die, so he took a panicked kick and ended up crushing the thing’s neck with his boot.

He looked up as Nathaniel loosed an arrow deep into the adjacent cave and then pulled back two more in a double-shot, taking a quick knee before both shafts hissed through the air. They were both looking up in the darkness of the deep crevasse and Connor could hear the chatter increasing in volume.

“It’s a colony,” Bouclier warned, falling back and putting a rough hand on Nathaniel’s shoulder. “We don’t have time for this!”

“Damn things will follow us,”

“Damn things are small and stupid,” she countered hotly. “We knew we were going to have to fight our way out of this, Howe, let it be against Darkspawn.” If Nathaniel answered her again then Connor didn’t hear it. “Guerrin! Pick him up!”

Connor did exactly as he was told and Surana was too woozy to groan this time. He made sure the Commander’s knife was not left behind, and as soon as Nathaniel passed him at a quick run he turned and followed as quickly as he could.

They ran. Bouclier in her armour, Nathaniel with his limp, and Connor with the Commander slung across his back. They ran because to stay meant a loud fight that would bring more Darkspawn surging over their heads.

They ran and Connor didn’t feel any pain in his legs or his lungs. He just watched the road ahead of him, dodging what he could and moving straight over what he couldn’t. He trusted his feet not to slip and his arms not to give out and drop the Grey Warden on his back. If he fell, well, he’d done that a few times already today and once more wouldn’t make much difference. Except he might die. But a lot of things could lead him that way.

The tunnel split and Nathaniel put on more speed that Connor wasn’t supposed to match. He stopped recklessly in the open space of the crossroads, taking the time to read the crooked metal post holding two broken pennants. Road markers. The Dwarven language had faded out with successive blights but both the surface and apparently the Roads used the same symbols for the same-

A deep, cascading sound built up and roared over them. It disturbed the air and made sand and dust pour down from the tunnel ceiling. Connor stumbled to a halt and Bouclier leant him a hand and arm to help keep him steady. They stopped and looked up, the squeaks and shrieks of the Deepstalkers that had chased them died down, and Connor looked back to see those stiff tails and hairless bodies scampering back the way they’d come.

They heard the crash and boom again, the rumble of distant thunder. Connor’s heart fell.

“Explosions.” He whispered.

“They blew one of the entrances.” Bouclier said. There was no telling how close they’d been to escape, but as the sound faded out it sounded like a door slamming in their faces. “Things must be going well on the surface…”

Nathaniel rejoined them, visibly pained by what the sound meant to them. His dark eyes looked sunken, skin pale in the red light of the tunnel.

“If I had to guess I’d call it east.” He said. “The direction of the thaig.”

“Where does the southern arm go?” Bouclier asked him.

“It says _‘Port’_ , and it may be further away but the plan was-”

Nathaniel was cut off by a sudden boom that rocked the tunnel system again. It was far away and clearly coming from the south, but it rocked so loudly that the sound of shifting stone overwhelmed them. In Connor’s mind he saw pillars rupturing with old dust and collapsing like giants brought to heel. The ceiling gave way and the sea roared down into the open gut of the deep roads impeding her shoreline.

He couldn’t know for sure if that was what happened, but the noise screamed so loudly it made all three of them skitter like nervous horses. Bouclier took his arm and tried to pull Connor away from the noise, shouting for Nathaniel to retreat with her. Both Wardens began to panic and Nathaniel even put his bow aside, grabbing Connor’s other arm as they both tried to pick him right off the ground and run between them.

The Deepstalkers had retreated with the first blast, the Grey Wardens fled at the second. Connor was too scared by the noise and the Warden’s reaction to dare fight them off or do anything but keep pace with them. The first great boulder of old road they found they ducked behind, Connor collapsing under the Commander’s limp weight and Bouclier chanting aloud a prayer to Andraste to keep them safe. It wasn’t until they’d stopped and openly cowered that Connor noticed it. Noticed their eyes.

Nathaniel’s eyes were like blue lamps, Bouclier’s face shining with the light given off by the Darkspawn taint.

They heard the war cry and the sea of vicious screams that followed it. The tunnels echoed and roared with Darkspawn, ogres with heavy feet stampeding by and making the pebbles and grit of the roads jump as they stormed past. They came flooding from the eastern tunnel and poured south towards the titanic crash, screaming with rage and bloodlust that made Connor’s skin go cold and his blood congeal over his aching gut. He heard the hurlocks’ armour clatter and bang together as they sprinted, hear the small vicious genlocks gurgle and shriek as they threw themselves off rocks and danced like demons down the shadowed way. Connor couldn’t bring himself to peer around the boulder, staring only at the red light and high vaulted cavern showing the way back to their dead end. He didn’t know how long they’d been down here in the heat and the gloom with the spawn, but it already felt like days.

Maybe the Darkspawn hadn’t been able to hear the attack at the northern entrance, at least not clearly enough to bring them full-force running blindly to meet the noise. The southern blast felt much closer, much louder, and the army that seethed down the passage to devour it was far more terrifying than any nightmares of demons or living corpses that Connor had ever experienced back at the tower. His hands were wrapped tight around his staff, wringing against the black grip and his lips moving in a prayer that he realized too late echoed Bouclier’s.

“ _You who stand before the gates. You who have followed me into the heat of evil. The fear of death is in your eyes; its hand upon your throat. Raise your voices to the heavens, remember: not alone do we stand on the field of battle. The Maker is with us, His Light shall be our banner, and we shall bear it through the gates of that city and deliver it…”_ He didn’t know why she chose that verse Connor just knew he said it with her and before the words were through Nathaniel had joined them in earnest.

The Darkspawn couldn’t hear three humans whispering to the Maker over their own shrieks and screaming noise. Connor wasn’t ashamed enough by his tears to hate himself for shedding them in front of Nathaniel. They were lost and injured and forsaken in the Deep Roads and if Connor Guerrin Disgrace of Redcliffe wanted to cry like a little babe then Maker take him he would do so. He didn’t wail, he didn’t sob or make foolish noises, he just recited the chant of light between the two wardens and let his face grow wet from fear.

And for whatever strange, bizarre, unheard of reason, Bouclier’s cheeks had clean tracks down them when she quickly pulled away from the rock and started pulling briskly at her belt. She snorted roughly and opened a mud-caked satchel, roughly unrolling a leather wrap and practically slapping Connor and Nathaniel’s hands with the bread she dolled out. A once-ripe apple from West Hill was split on her knife and rudely mashed into three pieces, one for each of them. Nathaniel’s hands were steady with the lump of hard cheese he broke apart for them to share, but his teeth were chattering with nerves when he fumbled for his flask and twisted the top off for a long, deep swig.

Connor drank the dragon piss gladly and the searing burn of who-knew-what-it-was cleared the fear from his eyes by replacing them with pain. Bouclier had her own but took the black ram-horn flask when Connor offered it, and she drank a mouthful before rudely complaining that Hawke’s was better.

They ate. It seemed like an absolutely ridiculous time to stop and have a little darkspawn infected picnic, but they ate. They were greedy with the rations because the unspoken agreement seemed to be that if they were about to die then they’d do it full, and if Connor wanted any of the raspberry preserve from Skyhold then he would have to fight Bouclier for it- and he did.

He shoved her with his arm and it surprised her so much she laughed. Not a full laugh. Not a happy laugh. Just a startled exhale with a smile. And her smile made him smile. The almost-laughter finally made the hard line of Nathaniel’s shoulders break and he gasped several times in the hot air before letting his own tears out in a sudden, silent rush.

“Are the Deep Roads always this bad?” Connor finally gasped around a chunk of dusty cheese and stale rock-hard ‘ _bread’_.

“Every damned time.” Nathaniel answered him, taking another swallow from his flask before finishing the last bite of Bouclier’s apple. “Welcome to the Wardens, Guerrin.”

“If we could perform the Joining down here for you, I think it would be worth it.” Bouclier said, her voice recovering from its nervous shaking as she scraped the last of the preserve from its jar with her finger. “You’ve more than earned it.”

“Anything for that stipend, I guess.” Connor joked. Nathaniel laughed. Then he stopped laughing.

“We should have fed him before making him take that draught.” The older Warden said, the words heavy and hard as he looked at Surana. “We’ve been down here for hours, he deserved a meal first.”

“The herbs are less effective on a full stomach,” Connor told him, ignoring the very obvious emotion behind the regret. “Once you lead us out of here I’ll make sure he has enough soup to drown us both in.”

“Not if I don’t stop giving you shitty orders about his care,” Nathaniel said, suddenly gruff and throwing a hard frown onto things. “Quit listening to me when I say crap about things I know nothing about. Like Bouclier keeps saying, you’re the damned healer: you handle the damned healing.” And then, because he _really_ didn’t look like he wanted to say it, Nathaniel added one more thing: “I’m sorry, Connor.”

“And here I thought the Commander would have to make you say it.” Bouclier scoffed, giving time for Connor’s shock to settle down after the surprise statement. “And you both realize that at some point you’re going to have to use my name, no?”

“Bouclier is your name, Captain.” Nathaniel said in a very shitty tone of voice, because he went from dower to joking and rose smoothly to his feet, stretching his legs out slowly with a wince trying to cover his limp from before.

“You’ve forgotten it, haven’t you?” Bouclier accused him, cleaning up her empty jar, knife, and leather. She left behind nothing of value as she offered Connor her arm to help him rise with Commander Surana still resting like a dead weight on his back.

“I have not.” Nathaniel insisted.

“Then what is it?”

“We need to get a move on before those Darkspawn come back.”

“You forgot my name!”

“Pick up the pace, Guerrin.”

Bouclier called him a very rude name in Orlesian. The insult just made made the other warden grin foolishly as the Captain blew steam out her ears and followed him. With the Deep Roads widening and the looming shadows of a broken city gate approaching Connor found himself trotting quickly between the two of them. Because it seemed like the right thing to do before they all wound up dead and boiling in a darkspawn pot, he cleared his throat and said something.

“Thank you, Genevieve.”

Nathaniel called him a very rude name in Trade. The insult just made the other warden smile at them both fondly, and then they vanished into the darkness of the thaig.


	18. Diligence is Key

The thaig was a dark, quiet place. After the constant, if bloody, light of the Deep Roads themselves the fallen settlement was lonely and chilled. The darkness hung from the unseen ceiling and Connor could feel the pressure of thousands of tonnes of solid stone bearing down on them. The knowledge made his ears ring, as if the very air itself were a part of the support keeping the mountain of rock stationary above them.

Their chatter as a group died as the heat of the Roads vanished. They passed the shattered and defiled remains of two great dwarven statues that had once stood guard outside the thaig’s broken metal gates. The steel and iron had been ripped and pulled back like the dried skin of a hunted animal, exposing the fragile insides of the former city.  Dragged and flung to the side of the doors were the broken shells of stone warriors Connor had to assume had once been fabled golems.

Once they passed the gates Nathaniel took the lead again for them. His eyes held a soft blue light as he turned from them and moved ahead softly. No explanation was necessary. Connor just held out hope that between Nathaniel and Genevieve’s senses they would be able to find any remaining exit and avoiding fighting any Darkspawn stragglers. A futile hope, but a comforting one just the same.

The tunnels had been hot and dusty, the thaig as cold and slimy. There were ropes and carpets of strange black mould on the cracked and crumbled bones of the old settlement. The mould wafted in channels of air Connor wanted to enjoy but felt sense enough to hold his breath when he felt them. Whatever the mould was, he wanted none of it inside of him.

The light confused him. Everything felt greyed out and dim, light sprinkled through the damp air from old glyphs of lyrium and almost-magical dwarven stone lamps that still held power centuries after their makers had vanished. He could see the broken shadows of ruined shops and homes, felt his boots whisper over piles of age-crumbled bones. Nathaniel moved like a true ghost down the twisted and wandering lanes of the crypt, and Connor struggled to keep him in sight.

Water dripped almost everywhere, reminding them of the Storm Coast’s rolling sky a hundred feet or more overhead. The thaig was built in cascading levels reaching down someplace the roads would not show and up beyond the reach of the pale street light.

They saw firelight in the distance and avoided it. They stumbled across old, abandoned campsites squashed behind collapsed walls. Quietly, in hushed whispers, Genevieve explained something Connor hadn’t been coherent enough to wonder properly before.

“Even if the Inquisition has sealed the two local entrances to this place, there will be at least one more exit tunnel back into the Deep Roads. As long as we have the strength to walk, we will escape.” Connor remembered Surana’s wardens telling him that their last expedition into the Deep Roads had lasted an entire month and carried them from Amaranthine to the Frostback Mountains. Zevran wasn’t a Grey Warden and he’d survived the experience, but their company had also been properly supplies for it and Zevran was, well, _Zevran_.

Nathaniel signalled a halt and Genevieve drew her sword. Connor took a knee near a great stack of rubble and eased Surana down slowly onto the incline. His back and arms ached from the burden of carrying him but Connor knew better than to complain. He took the brief rest to check the Warden Commander’s condition.

His breaths were fast and shallow, not a good sign but certainly better than if he just stopped breathing period. A small spark of light and a gentle sweep of Connor’s thumb showed no yellow around the Commander’s eyes or rawness at his gums- two typical signs of too much deathroot in the body. The Hero of Ferelden was listless and held fast in the medicine’s grip as Nathaniel silently returned and signed something with his hands. There was the curved, wicked edge of one of his long daggers out and dripping with something black, and it felt like that was part of the message. The glow in his eyes had faded.

Genevieve hesitated for a moment and looked at Connor, but he didn’t even know what the silent gestures meant. Then the Captain nodded to Nathaniel and handed him the empty preserve jar from earlier. Nathaniel returned the nod and vanished again. Genevieve helped Connor lift the Commander up again.

When Nathaniel returned to them he led them through the decayed streets towards a hovel of three semi-solid walls and half a ceiling. Piled in the shadows were the corpses of four genlocks, their black blood pooled and smeared on the broken floor. Nathaniel’s hands told Connor to lay Surana down again on a slanted slab of white stone opposite the bodies, and then he said something to Genevieve that angered her.

They disagreed and then began to argue in earnest with each other, yelling with their hands. Most of it was done with curled fingers and specific movements from their wrists, the rest was just aggravated pantomime that Connor had a much easier time with. Nathaniel accused the Captain’s armour of being too loud and the Lieutenant was charged with hobbling around like an old man. How fitting that Connor only understood the insults.

“ _He’s my friend!_ ” Nathaniel finally hissed in the dark, his voice sharp and low. “ _If we don’t get out of here, he won’t get out at all!”_

 _“If they catch you out there alone-!_ ” Genevieve protested, her voice whispering as quietly as she could manage through her frustration.

“ _My friend needs help and his protégé needs time. Wandering around blindly does nothing but drag the hunt out. Defend them while I search._ ”

“ _Lieutenant-_ ”

“Defend them!” Connor flinched at the volume, it was still low for an argument but too loud in the quiet of the thaig. Nathaniel swept away with that, silent as the cold murky blackness surrounding them. The silence Nathaniel left in his wake was too heavy a burden for Connor to try and lift, and more importantly he was afraid of being too loud and setting Genevieve’s eyes glowing with alerted darkspawn. Many of them had marched out to find the noise, but it would be foolish to assume that it was all of them.

Thankfully, even if he couldn’t speak up he could at least try to understand the situation on his own. There were only two things Nathaniel could go hunting for: a way out, or the Darkspawn “Alphas” the Grey Wardens had so seriously discussed a lifetime ago under the sun, wind, and rain of the Storm Coast. To go picking a fight with Darkspawn pack leaders seemed impossibly stupid of Nathaniel, so it had to be the other option.

The most important thing the Hunter had mentioned was time. The Grey Warden was worried about his Commander and friend, and Connor had said several times that he needed enough _time_ to help him. Now he had that time, and even a semi-secure place to do the work in.

He pulled out the metal plate from before and used the opposite side to lessen the chances of poisoning the plate with more deathroot. From his belt he withdrew and began laying out a roll of elfroot leaves, wetting a bundle of gauze and patting the dried herbs down with it to soften them. The lyrium potion he had to think for a moment on how to apply it. He had no bowl or pot to mix water and lyrium together and soak anything in. Ugh. He’d figure it out.

They hadn’t returned Surana’s gauntlet to his injured hand after the blast. The skin was an angry red colour with several long, narrow blisters forming despite the salve Connor had applied hours ago. The more they moved him the sooner he would wake up, but Connor went for the belts and straps along his armour anyways. The pauldron lifted off easily enough as did the silver breastplate. The quilted blue tunic that served as padding for the armour was far more difficult. He didn’t call Genevieve to help him in the quiet, it was better for her to keep watch for Darkspawn or deepstalkers or the living dead or whatever else called the Deep Roads home. He could manage one elf on his own.

Armour was meant to be put on and removed in a specific order every time, and in Surana’s case it doubtless started with the metal skirt that girded his waist and protected his legs. Unfortunately he couldn’t justify stripping the Warden Commander in the middle of an infested thaig when he didn’t know how long Nathaniel would be gone for. He dealt with what seemed like the most immediate concerns first.

He pulled away the laces down the tunic’s front and side. He’d expected the garment to lace up down the back but then realized Grey Wardens couldn’t always expect to have help with their armour. He peeled it down and winced in sympathy when he pulled the Commander’s arm free. Under the blue was a long sleeved black shirt that Connor had a much easier time removing.

Genevieve’s eyes were sympathetic as Connor worked. Surana’s skin was patterned with broken and overlapping symbols. They were arcane and primal images he must have conjured to form that fateful spell and he had no way of knowing how many of them would scar. The marks were white and hard to the touch, ranging in size from fine slices to the width of Connor’s thumb. The rest of him was red and blistering, evoking the memory of the web-like traces of skin Connor had resisted peeling off his own palms for the journey back to Skyhold.

The damage was at its worst cross his shoulder and back, explaining the laboured way he breathed. Connor could also easily see where the mana had surged down across Surana’s hip to burn down his leg. It had swallowed one arm, looped down his shoulder, and seared the opposite leg.

He started at the shoulder, arguing with himself because yes it was the middle of the damage but it was also the _worst_ of it. If he wasn’t going to reach the Commander’s knee then he could live with his wrist uncovered too.

Connor emptied one of his own lyrium potions into the shallow stone mortar from his kit, thankful that neither it nor the pestle had cracked as he shredded dried spindleweed roots into the glowing concoction and started grinding. The potion thickened quickly and Connor gently smeared a thin, shallow skim of it across Surana’s blistered skin. It was more concentrated than what the Archmage had told him to do for the burns, but it conserved water and that felt like a more immediate issue. Once they were back on the surface water would literally fall from the sky, they’d find elfroot woven through any meadow they wandered by, and he could redo any work he did down here with all the time in the world. But down here in the dark, he worked with what he had and as quickly as he could.

The pain made Surana tense under the sleeping draught but Connor worked on. First the cream, then the damp herbs, then bandages from both kits. He wrapped from the shoulder to Surana’s elbow, keeping the gauze damp and firm- but not too tight. Then around his chest and torso where the supplies began to run thin. He would have liked enough gauze to wind a second, dryer layer, not to mention enough potion, water, and elfroot to tend Surana’s hip and leg, but he made due. He was able to briskly dress the Commander back in his shirt and tunic before the constant irritation and movement finally woke him up again.

His wide eyes were spacy, blinking slow and out of sync as Connor eased him to lean down and back onto the smooth stone incline again. Surana didn’t gasp or struggle as he came to, and was able to rest on his injured back calmly. When he’d had a moment to orient himself a bit and focus his eyes on Connor with recognition, Surana raised his good hand to his arm and placed his palm over the hidden gauze. 

“Too tight?” Connor asked. He was pleased when the Warden Commander closed his eyes and shook his head.

“Feels better.” He admitted in a weak, rough voice. Then he trailed his tongue over his lips, swallowing the dank air.

“Water?”

“Please.” Connor obliged him, alarmed when he realized Surana’s badly needed drink meant the entire skin was now empty after only half a day. The Commander noticed it too with a weary frown.

“That’s why we’re carrying it.” Connor brilliantly quipped. “To drink, not lug it around for the sake of more weight.” Surana’s smile was tight but seemed genuine all the same.

“Enjoying the Deep Roads?” He asked.

“Best fun of my life.” Connor answered with great emphasis. “Can’t understand why more people don’t pop down for a visit now and then.” Surana’s smile showed teeth.

“Be thankful Hawke and Oghren aren’t here.” The Commander cautioned him, his voice improving with moderate use but still cracked and rough in places. “Branka, Branka, Branka, Bartrand, Bartrand, Bartrand. Like two stubborn mabari.”

“I’ll be careful not to ask them what you mean by that.” The names sounded awfully familiar, but they rested at the edge of a memory he couldn’t reach right now.

“We’ll get out of here.” Surana told him gently. Or maybe he said it to himself. “Zevran needs his chance to yell at me.”

“You sound a lot better, sir.” Connor finally pointed out.

“I can breathe.” He said, almost with a sigh of relief as his hand rested on his stomach. His breastplate was not far from him but the blue tunic seemed like plenty of weight and structure at the moment. “The wraps help. Thank you.” Connor blundered a bit of nonsense and Surana closed his eyes, leaning back on the stone with a shallow sigh. Connor found himself suddenly anxious for Nathaniel’s return.

The thaig was quiet. Connor had already established that, but now that he wasn’t working and they weren’t moving he realized his assumption wasn’t quite so. The air was heavy and wet which made it _seem_ quiet, and the dripping water echoed from what felt like very far away, making the space _seem_ empty, but there was an entire abandoned city down here under the rock. It was not empty. It was not quiet.

Surana’s eyes were glowing dimly, but not shining like they had at every other darkspawn encounter. He seemed restless too, something Connor mistook for a sign of pain until he made himself understand that Genevieve had not relaxed in the slightest since Nathaniel left them. Both Wardens could feel the Darkspawn in the cavern, and now that he was sitting still Connor could start to pick up on it too. Not as effectively. Not as magically. But he wasn’t completely brainless either.

There was scratching. And grinding. And more of those echoing gurgles. They sounded far away but in a place like this very far could easily end up being very close. If Connor had to blindly pick a direction for most of the noise then he would have called it ‘ _up and a bit over to the left’_ which was factually useless. As he had done since leaving Skyhold Connor pegged his panic levels to those of the Grey Wardens around him but aligned about seven points further up the scale of hyperventilation, or more depending which Warden he was looking at. If Genevieve became afraid of something then Connor would start to cry. If the Hero of Ferelden rose to moderately alarmed then Connor was emotionally prepared to have his inner organs simply shut down.

He was now _incredibly_ anxious for Nathaniel to come back.

The noises became consistent in the dark. They were screeching now, growling loudly and throwing their voices at the walls. Connor’s hands shook quite badly as he prepared a portion of rations for Surana to eat, and his well-meant assurance that Nathaniel would be fine didn’t sit well with Connor. Why were the Darkspawn getting so loud if nothing was in the middle of going wrong? What if he’d been seen? Been caught? Been ea-

“Help me with this.” The archmage distracted him as well as he could with the worst subject: magic. Surana’s was still painful to cast and he struggled openly with it, letting his burnt arm lay limp while he grasped several times at the air with his other palm. He tried several spells that collapsed before Connor could even try to see them, and he pulled himself back to more and more rudimentary techniques. It devolved all the way to the snapping game they’d played on the road, only without the snapping, and with orbs of light almost dim enough to be invisible. He had a much easier time when he used Connor’s staff as a crutch, but put it aside after a few minutes of intense focus.

It wasn’t until he heard the Warden Commander utter the words, “ _Fuck you, I killed an Archdemon”_ that he came out from under his own spiritual block. He conjured an orb of light that engulfed his entire hand, mentally squeezed it down to a tiny needlepoint of starlight. Then he let it grow into a ball of liquid red fire, change into a glittering star of blue ice, loop into a spiral of lightning, and then thread into a round cage of raw mana. To go through so many magical states without breaking the spell was more than Connor felt capable of doing even on his best days, but he was still skilled enough to see how much of it came down to sheer willpower on the Warden Commander’s part. He shouldn’t have been able to do it in his state, he was just too incensed by the loss of his magic to put up with remaining so helpless. He simply told the veil to fuck off and it did so, how could you not respect that?

A terrible, rippling screech echoed through the thaig. Bouclier drew her sword and stood from her crouched position against the shadowed wall. Connor clutched his staff and stared blindly through the dark, cold with the awareness of the sound coming from _‘over there_ ’ and not knowing where that even was. Surana had his hand up again, skin crawling with fire so deep a red it almost burned dark in the shadows.

Several tense, frightened seconds later one of those shadows at the edge of their little camp gave way to Nathaniel’s startled face. His eyes were not glowing and he was not being chased by anything, in fact he entered the ruined building at a walk and didn’t even have his bow out. But he was startled just the same and moved like a ghost to keep quiet, marvelling for a moment at the Commander’s fire.

“I leave you alone for an hour…” He whispered, and Surana closed his hand to snuff out the spell. “Excellent work, Guerrin.”

“What in the Maker’s name was that noise, Howe?” Genevieve hissed.

“Report.” Surana uttered quietly. Basically the same thing the Captain wanted.

“I have good news and bad news.” Nathaniel explained in a soft, rapid voice. “And then I have very good news and very bad news.” Connor’s heart rose and his stomach dropped. He didn’t like today.

“Good news first.” Surana told him.

“There’s still an open entrance, I saw daylight and got a flare through it.” That- that was _amazing_ news! Nothing could compare with that!

“Bad news,” Genevieve asked, and the other Warden looked disappointed.

“Broodmother.” The word didn’t sound like _‘freedom’_ and it took a moment to sink in- no wait, there it was. That horror like thick oil sloshing in his gut. “ _That_ was the noise. She’s young, poor thing, and by the volume of Genlocks and their bodies in this place no doubt a former Legionnaire. I saw at least one Alpha protecting her.”

“That explains the surface raids.” Genevieve replied in a hushed voice. “They need to feed her. What was the _very_ bad news?”

“The very good news,” Nathaniel willfully and incorrectly answered, “Is that the Inquisition is engaged at the cave mouth and incredibly close to her pit. That scream was probably her trying to call back the hoard we saw running south to the coastal entrances. If we play our cards right we can still route the spawn and make our escape. My flare got an answering shot so they at least know that _I’m_ alive down here.”

What followed was a very poignant silence from the rest of them. Connor was a very sensitive person and very small things could easily upset him, like, for example Nathaniel’s deflection away from Genevieve’s question. He wanted to turn tail and run away from the prospect of facing a ‘ _Broodmother’_ , whatever horrific nightmare that turned out to be, but he also wanted to kick up his heels and praise the Maker because Blessed Andraste! The Inquisition knew they were down here!

But Nathaniel had deflected, and now he was still holding his tongue, and now he was holding eye-contact with Surana like a guilty hound. Connor couldn’t dance or cry so long as Nathaniel remained so quiet. Whatever the _very bad news_ was, he wasn’t going to give it willingly.

“It feels like as of late I’m the only one who keeps having to bring you the bad news.” The Warden complained to his Commander. Surana scoffed at him.

“Maker’s Teeth, Nate.” He grunted. “Unless your flare went through someone’s head then out with it.”

“You sound a lot better, by the way.”

“ _Howe_.”

Nathaniel shuffled uneasily and then, as ordered, came _out with it._

“Velanna’s here.” Connor didn’t know who that was. “It was in the dark and at a distance, Soren, but…” His voice faded out and he stood there like the ground was about to collapse out from under him. Neither Captain nor Recruit knew what the exchange really meant, but they didn’t have to have the details to see the effect. Surana processed the announcement slowly, and Connor knew well enough by now that a deep, extended silence was a natural prelude to the Warden Commander becoming very, very angry.

Connor didn’t know who Velanna was and he really, really didn’t want to.

The three of them jumped on edge when Surana moved his arm and braced himself on the stone, pushing himself up and finding one foot on the broken ground. Connor reached to help or tell him no and was told in no uncertain terms not to dare try touching him. His staff was smacked away when he offered it and at that point Connor knew he would either like to melt into the shadows or simply evaporate out of existence before embarrassing himself any further.

Surana found his feet the same way he’d found his magic: through sheer stubborn determination. He was not ready to stand and he should not have been capable of walking, but he commanded his body the same way he ordered his men and his legs held, his balance firm. He kept his eyes closed and his head down, shoulders hunched with the effort to hold his own weight up. Once he was standing he reached around his waist and struggled with the griffon buckle at his belt, fighting with his raw hand to get it to work and finally drop the armoured skirt Connor had left alone while treating him. It hit the floor with a terrible noise and the Commander made himself step away from it.

“My belt.” Genevieve handed the supply belt and pouches over immediately and he strapped it on with almost as much effort as he’d needed to remove the armour. “My sword.” If Nathaniel wanted to argue then he chose a very good time not to, because he handed sword and scabbard over and let Surana find the loop to put the weapon back in place without a word.

“Commander.” Genevieve offered the helmet she’d taken from him, but Surana shook his head.

“No. I want her to know it’s me.” This time when he spoke there were wisps of something white at his lips. They moved like smoke and vanished once spoken, and he closed his eyes tight for a moment longer before Connor faintly felt a tug of something magical nearby.

It felt arcane: the sort of power behind a forest fire or a lightning storm. But it was refined, like the carefully placed lines of a glyph. And it was something bigger than the idea of light or the concept of a push. It was old magic. Old magic that didn’t have a long range, and if Connor looked very, _very_ carefully then he could only just see it. The spell broke slowly from somewhere in the middle of the Warden Commander’s burnt back and it spread like a ripple over his twisted shoulders, straightening them out. His legs shifted and he stood a little stronger, his arms moving and resting straight down his sides as his spine turned the right way to bring him up to his full height again.

When he opened his eyes there was a white, menacing glow weeping from them. That raw, wraithlike energy from when he’d drawn himself out of the landslide and then fought with arms against the ogre was back again. Magic that should have been beyond his reach he grabbed with both hands, smashed with his own head, and then tossed around his burned shoulders like a mantle of power.

“She could be gone.” Nathaniel finally uttered, his voice quiet and respectful.

“And if she isn’t,” The Commander countered him. “Then she either comes with us back to Amaranthine, or I send her off to her precious gods. Take us to the Broodmother.”

“Commander…” Nathanie’s voice was hesitant. It made Surana clench his teeth as his eyes surged with white magic.

“ _Now._ ” The Grey Warden looked pained and regretful, but he clasped a hand and put it over his heart, nodding.

“Yes, Commander.”

Nathaniel led them through the darkness, and the Warden Commander marched close behind.

Connor and Genevieve followed.

The thaig was a loud, dangerous place.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It was actually while writing these recent chapters that someone finally told me that Velanna and Sigrun have multiple ending outcomes: I DID NOT KNOW THIS. I DID NOT KNOW YOU COULD DO THINGS RIGHT AND KEEP THEM BOTH ALIVE AND AT THE VIGIL. My Velanna ran off in the deep roads as described here, and at this point in the story it didn't make sense to come up with an excuse for why she WAS NOT there all along, and it changed the tone for later chapters and a few things in the sequel. It also left me struggling to find an appropriate emotional high to hit for the end of this story. Sigrun I let myself just cheat, she isn't in this story but she does feature in the sequel.
> 
> My bad, Velanna. My bad.


	19. Almost, But Not Quite

Connor wanted an explanation. He felt he deserved one. A few hours ago or last night, no, he wouldn’t have felt so entitled, but right now he did. Following the Warden Commander and Nathaniel through a dark and decayed old dwarven thaig, stranded hundreds of feet below the surface, after sloughing their way through the Deep Roads because they’d been caught in a landslide from their own explosives, had added up to this simple thought: Connor wanted a fucking explanation.

He wanted to know why Surana was willing to kill himself all of the sudden by walking on the brittle span of his own barely-restored magical power. The archmage had no damned business casting magic in his state, especially not for pride’s sake alone. Sorry, but it was the truth: Connor’s hero was being an idiot.

And so was Nathaniel _‘I will stab you if you don’t listen to my bad idea’_ Howe. Why in the Maker’s name had he turned so docile out of nowhere? What Connor wouldn’t have given to have had Nathaniel feel so reserved back in the tunnels before ordering Connor twice to make bad decisions for the Commander’s health. It was ridiculous. He was acting like he was afraid of the Commander all of the sudden and Connor wanted to throw up his hands and demand they both stop and explain themselves immediately. Surana was in no shape to go threatening anyone beyond ‘ _when I get better I’ll-_ ’ and Nathaniel had the worst sense of timing imaginable.

And what was worse, what was _so much_ worse, was that Surana’s bad temper and Nathaniel’s weak behaviour meant there was no one left to explain what in Andraste’s name was going on. Genevieve had been with the two company for exactly four days less than Connor and had only given him a baffled look before they started moving.

Connor couldn’t ask Surana because the Commander couldn’t breathe- oh, he faked it perfectly well but Connor wasn’t stupid. He’d seen and treated the burns, he’d probed them with his magic after they’d settled into Surana’s flesh, he knew the Commander could not breathe. Look at him struggling not to keel over just climbing the cracked and dusty steps of the thaig to reach one of the higher levels of the old city: the way his knees wobbled and his good arm had to swing and try to counter-balance the painful lean of his body. It actually frightened Connor a little bit but then he remembered he was annoyed and the fact that Surana had swatted away the staff Connor had offered him. Fine. Let him stumble. Slayer of the Archdemon and all that yes what a lot of good being an Arl was doing him right now. Excellent. Carry on, please, sir.

Connor couldn’t ask Nathaniel because Nathaniel was leading them and scouting ahead of the Commander, making sure the path he’d taken the first time hadn’t become overrun while he’d reported back to them. It took about five or ten minutes of hiking through the thaig for Connor to remember that he was _annoyed_ with the Warden Commander and that Surana had never in fact stated there should be a walking order.

On the principle of spite Connor overtook Surana’s weak stride. He used his staff as a crutch on the shattered stone road and hurried ahead, doing his best not to grumble under his breath as he did so. His pettiness would bite him in the ass later but there was no point trying to fall back into his old position once he pushed ahead so boldly.

If the Commander fell then Genevieve would catch him. And then Connor would feel very bad, but at least Genevieve would catch him. Connor could afford to be a bit of a brat before they were all fed to the broodmother that was supposed to be down here.

“Howe.” The cave was echoing with darkspawn noises now. The light didn’t let Connor see more than few hundred paces in any direction, obscuring the way they’d come and the exit to the Deep Roads they’d walked through so boldly. It felt like there was air ahead. He could see no light, but the darkness didn’t feel as oppressive. The darkspawn kept shrieking and growling loudly and the higher their volume rose the more prepared Connor was to try speaking. “Nathaniel.”

“Really? Now?” The Grey Warden complained. Nathaniel was either limping or taking things slow because for the first time since joining the company Connor was able to keep pace with him through the shadows and between the fingers of decrepit ruin.

“Yes now.” Connor answered shortly. “What’s going on?”

“It’s complicated.”

“Who’s Velanna?”

“The reason things are complicated.”

“Very helpful, sir.” Connor sneered. “You can’t just leave it at that.”

“Watch me.”

“Do you know what happens when a mage gets burns like that?” Connor asked, and Nathaniel ignored him. “It’s because we force too much energy out and human flesh just can’t handle it, so we burn. It’s like when you get callouses or cuts on your fingers from the drawstring on your bow. If you use your bow with raw fingers then you get scars. If you keep using it before the scars heal then you damage the knuckle and can’t bend your fingers right. If you were to just keep at it even with all that pain, then who knows, maybe your fingertips would just fall off.”

“You had me until that last one,” Nathaniel grumbled, “Never met an archer who cut off his fingers with a bowstring.”

“I’m sure it would be far more common if people made bowstrings out of lyrium.” Connor got a black look from the Grey Warden for that but he didn’t care. He’d cared before and now he didn’t. He wanted an explanation. “If he gets angry enough to use his powers in a fight he’ll lose a lot more than his fingertips, Nathaniel.”

“He’s the Commander, boy. He knows what he’s doing.”

“In that case he’ll probably do the smart thing and tell me to use _my_ magic for whatever he wants instead. So before he tells me to set this _Velanna_ on fire or blow her to pieces with lightning, Nathaniel, I want to know what in the Maker’s name is going on.” Nathaniel paused half-way up a large chunk of rock he’d climbed to get a better vantage point, bent his head for a moment, and then kept climbing with his grunted answer.

“It won’t come to that.”

“See, you say that and I think you believe it,” Connor’s words chased after him like an annoying little dog. “But I’m a pessimist who simply doesn’t.” Surana had been angry enough at the ogre not to notice the flaw in his staff that had blown both of them up. Surana was _even more_ angry now at the thought of this Velanna woman. “Howe _please_.”

“Fine.” Nathaniel slid down the other side of the rock and landed on his feet, checking back behind them where Surana and Genevieve had fallen back by almost twenty meters, but they were still coming. Nathaniel looked at him that Connor shrank back a little. “Velanna is half the reason why you’re the first mage Surana’s recruited in almost ten years.”

“Is this going to have anything to do with that ‘ _if you run away I’ll shoot you’_ comment you made after we left Skyhold?”

“ _Yes._ ” Nathaniel continued walking. Connor hurried to keep up with him.

“What did she do?”

“She _left_.” He hissed. “We were a week into the Deep Roads and provisioned for a month: Velanna, Oghren and I, plus four members of Amaranthine’s Silver Order. Velanna was our only mage and a skilled healer, she carried all of our medicines and herbs with her and was meant to keep a close eye on the Silver Order members in case they showed any signs of Blight. We encountered what’s known as an Awakened Darkspawn: one of the creatures who’s learned to speak like humans do. It was far away from us across a broken stretch of the roads and was yelling at something we couldn’t see but Velanna was convinced it was her sister. Don’t ask me about it- once we get out of here, Connor I’ll answer all the questions you can think of but right now just leave it. The point was she thought she saw her sister in the Deep Roads but we had no way of getting closer to them. We circled for hours and found no viable paths, these tunnels are full of collapsed passages and shattered bridges.”

“We stopped for the night instead,” he continued. “She wouldn’t let it go. We told her to take first watch and just calm down and think about it alone for a little bit, and then we just all rolled over and went to sleep. Stupid sods.” Nathaniel’s words faded out and his attention was lost to the shadows around them. He kept them moving, and Connor remained at his flank.

“And then she left.” Connor supplied. Nathaniel’s eyes fell to the wayside before he nodded. Short. Firm.

“We woke up hours later without her.” He explained. “No sign of when she’d left, just the shock of finding one of the brontos we’d brought along with us gone with as many of our supplies as it could carry. We had enough provisions to search the caverns for three days before we had to turn back without her. Found the bronto before we left, but neither Velanna nor her stolen goods.” Connor was no fool, a bit of pilfered food and water was not what the Wardens had been after or upset about.

“So… from then until now, just, nothing?” Who could survive that long in the Deep Roads? Ten whole years? And it had left a mark on her former companions that even Connor had noticed but never been able to name before now. Nathaniel’s direct threat in the event of Connor trying to desert. Surana’s livid reaction to Connor’s comment about people running away in the night.

“More than nothing, but never enough.” Nathaniel answered cryptically. “The Commander was furious. Absolutely livid. You think you’ve seen him mad before, Guerrin, but we thought he’d bring the whole Vigil down on our heads. There’d always been something sour between the two of them, you could ignore it on the better days but not when they felt like clashing- so when we told him she’d cut and run without warning and put the entire company in jeopardy, he went positively mad.”

“They didn’t get along?” Connor asked, admittedly too upset by the thought of Commander Surana shouting and throwing lightning at the wall to address it.

“She was a Dalish Keeper and Surana grew up in the Circle of Magi: they had very different opinions on how an Elven Commander should conduct himself. No one ever thought she’d actually _betray_ him though, even Velanna herself admitted her respect for him openly.”

“Was it even about the Commander if she said she saw her sister?” Connor had never had any siblings but he tried to imagine what he’d do. Nathaniel had already said he didn’t want to discuss why the Grey Warden’s sister would have been a week into the Deep Roads of all places, but if Connor had thought he saw, say, Amara who was certainly dead just up and wandering around West Hill, he probably would have gone astray as well. Not permanently, but-

“It doesn’t do any good to wonder about that because we never found her.” Nathaniel answered him bitterly. “The Commander petitioned King Bhelen in Orzammar for aid and was granted minor support from both the Legion of the Dead and several dwarven houses who were already exploring the Deep Roads after the Thaw. It was more courtesy than real effort and Surana gathered the rest of us from Amaranthine and launched his own expedition back along the path we’d lost her down. All we ever found were cold tracks and ruined campsites: the Dalish always make a star-pattern with their fires, a small detail but distinct down here. It took a summons from King Alistair himself to get the Commander to end the hunt months after Orzammar considered their obligations settled.”

“Are you certain you saw her this time?” Connor asked. He didn’t doubt Nathaniel but he put the question to him anyways. All the time and resources wasted, all the people who could have been killed or become lost as they went scouring the Deep Roads. All for one Grey Warden. And now years later all it took was saying that same Warden’s name to drive the Commander to reckless magic.

“Nothing is certain in the Deep Roads.” Nathaniel quoted gravely, and they walked on.

The cavern filled with noise as they moved. The chatter had risen to constant crying out and screaming, the Darkspawn howling fitfully in the darkness as the clash of metal and scraping of stone started to reach them in the darkness. The sound rose and scratched along the vaulted ceiling of the thaig, skirting down the crumbled walls of the massive pit and dripping back down like the brackish water Connor and the others picked their way around.

The sounds were frantic and violent, and when Connor at last saw a ray of daylight he was so smothered in sound that he could approach the vantage point with Nathaniel and not feel any fear. No Darkspawn would see them, and any who did wouldn’t care.

Once this place had been a balcony to some building now toppled and in ruins. It looked down some forty slanted feet of broken stone to a wide landing, once a common area for travellers entering the thaig. Stairs cut into the rock ascended far to the right and wound up into those precious fingers of fading daylight. The milky white air was thick with violent shadows cutting through it, choked with dust kicked up by the fighting. The stairs were solid things that vanished behind curtains of solid stone, and men’s voices mingled with the spawn to create a hideous noise.

Across the square and directly below them stood a massive stone dwarf carved from the heartstone of the thaig. The old warrior stood over fifty feet tall and held a great hammer overhead, supporting the ridge of buildings over his head and many thousands of tonnes of rock beyond him. Down between his thick legs was a darkness at his feet, broken and clawed apart, where something heinous and twisted was writhing, screaming, _dying_ …

“Broodmother.” Nathaniel growled, kneeling at the balcony’s edge with his bow shouldered, his hands breaking open that leather case from the beach. He withdrew several precious arrows and laid them flat on the stone next to him, going steadily to work affixing those copper heads to four of the shafts. Connor watched the mother.

She was horrifying. Even from this far away Connor could see her sacks of grey flesh writhe and jiggle as she lashed the air with blackened hands. Her body had swollen and contorted in such a way that she had no legs, just volumes of sore flesh piled as high as a man was tall. Her body swallowed entire rocks and bled on them, thick tentacles of rotted flesh lashing the hard ground and swiping at the air before she screamed again, bloodless and decayed.

“Utha!” And then Connor heard the voice. He felt Commander Surana’s presence near them as he and Bouclier reached the balcony, but Connor couldn’t pull his eyes away. “ _Utha!_ ” The voice repeated.

The square was a mess of activity. Darkspawn scrambling over one another, screaming, biting, clawing at their brothers. He watched one of those fleshy sacks around the broodmother rip open with a wretched scream and a naked, shivering monster was wrenched from her body. It was struck and kicked until it began to move, emptying its lungs of birthing fluid before rising to its feet. It was forced to bear a sword only seconds into its cursed life, and left bloody footprints on the stone as it staggered away, naked and grotesque.

There were hurlocks, but not many. They moved like men through a swarm of children, roaring and lashing out with their fists trying to gain some sense of order over the chaos. The Genlocks had none of it. They were raw and young, hungry, Connor thought. They looked hungry.

“ _She is lost, Warden!_ ” This voice Connor heard clearly over the brood. It soared over the noise and burrowed into his ears, loud and grave. “ _Return now, the Architect awaits us.”_

He couldn’t see the speaker and then suddenly he _could._ It stood tall and walked like a man, its body bristled with spines of metal hammered onto plates and sheets of twisted steel. Its head was swallowed by the jagged maw of a crudely made helmet, and in one hand it dragged the heavy body of a blunt sword across the ground. It moved fluidly though, an unnatural and nearly evil grace moving it along like oil through water. Connor saw the grey light fleck off its nightmarish armour, and he heard it speak to the shadows of the stone dwarf.

“Warden!” The Darkspawn repeated, voice like the demon that had haunted his nightmares for years. “She is done!”

“No!” The first voice, and Connor didn’t see the speaker but he became aware of her in a more personal way.

Magic.

It bloomed around the broodmother and she screamed at the light, lines Connor could only half-read from this far away cutting through the stone and wrapping over her bulbous flesh. The magic moved with strength and purpose until it circled her completely, and then his senses followed the tug and pull of mana until he saw the staff tethering the spell to its caster. And then he saw her: Velanna.

At this distance Connor took Nathaniel’s word that the ex-Warden was an elf, because he honestly couldn’t tell. He saw a slight figure wrapped in tattered layers and folds of dark fabric, fair hair twisted and bound behind her head. Her staff was white as bone and its crystal wept red shards of light as she held it firm in both hands and called out to the armoured Darkspawn standing in front of the mother.

“This is his fault!” She shouted, and her voice carried fiercely. “I won’t abandon her now!”

“She is lost!” The Alpha howled back. “She is too close to the surface! The humans will overrun her spawn and kill her, you must come with me.”

“ _No!_ ”

Surana was at Connor’s right. He moved slowly from pain and caution, his eyes still weeping steady streams of white smoke as he placed his good hand down slowly on the crumbled balcony. Apparently he could see just fine through the ancient spell he’d cobbled together, because he watched the exchange silently, soaking up the words and chaos unfolding below. On Surana’s far side, away from him, Connor saw Nathaniel’s hands beginning to shake as the Hunter dealt with his arrows and stared boldly down into the pit below them. His eyes were wide and red, mouth twisted in a furious way as he listened.

“Grey Warden!” the darkspawn shouted. “Do you fear the Architect now, after all these years? He holds no anger against you, no blame, what punishment could he inflict that would compare with events as they already are? Return to the nest, escape this place before they find you and kill you!”

“He did this to her!” Velanna screamed. “She said _no_ and he did it anyways! Utha deserved more!”

“She agreed to it-”

“And then she said _no!_ ” Strands of her hair fell over her face, her hand dropping her staff when she bent over with the shriek and nearly smashed the weapon’s head on the ground. “I saw it! He saw it! We all did! She was in agony and she told him no! She told him to stop! Utha served him for years and when she begged mercy he ignored her! She deserved better! _She didn’t deserve this! **I** don’t deserve it!_ ”

“Science courts tragedy, Warden!” The Darkspawn urged with more philosophy than Connor ever thought one of them could have. “If she had remained in the nest she would have completed her transformation far from the threats of the surface, but instead you brought her here where she cannot be defended. Look at this place! She has no pit, no walls, no safeguards! The surface is within sight! She will die here and you will come back with me!”

“I’ve heard enough.” Surana uttered, white magic escaping his lips. The mage below raised her staff in a twisting coil of green lightning and orange fire, both energies flaring from opposite ends of the weapon as she swung it around herself. Connor felt the magic surge up and crackle through the air.

“ _Never!_ ” She screamed.

“Then you leave me no choice!” The Alpha advanced.

“Nathaniel.”

“One shot, I swear to the Maker,” Nathaniel took one of his armed arrows and pulled back viciously on his bow. The fletching came straight back to his ear and his jaws were clenched, nostrils flared with rage as he tracked the demon down below and then loosed the arrow with a loud snap.

“ _Wait a minute, we can’t-_ ” Genevieve was ignored by Surana’s voice.

“Connor, lightning. As much of it as you can cast in one go.”

“Yes, sir.” Because lightning made sense. Lightning went everywhere and there were Darkspawn _everywhere._ Connor pushed away from the ledge with his staff behind him, twisting his hand until he felt his staff’s head drop and begin to swing. His thumb hooked and pushed the shaft around until it started spinning, his mind pulling together the glyphs of speed and fear and concussion that made the spell work.

Nathaniel’s arrow found the alpha’s shoulder and swallowed the creature in white brilliance, letting screams and howls fill the cave.

Connor threw his hand up and told five liquid shots to multiply into ten, pulling his fingers down and leaving the mark hovering in the air where he thrust the serpentstone head of his staff. The crystal reacted to its elemental compliment and ten strikes became twenty, the energy peeling off in one thick bolt of violet before arcing down and-

“ _Aaag!_ ” Connor’s violet launched and as soon as it was clear an arc of livid green speared down through his chest. He felt himself stagger, pain blistering across his chest as his robe reacted, shrank, and then expanded like it took its own breath. Magic skated down his body, negated by the enchantments in the heavy garment. He lost his footing and caught himself on one hand, more stunned than injured as he looked up for the source.

He saw the second volley of green lightning hammering down and rolled frantically out of the way. It struck the stone and he kept his eyes open long enough to see Genevieve deflect one of the bolts clean down the face of her shield. Nathaniel had dropped his bow and had both hands on the ledge, leaning over and screaming the mage’s name to get her attention.

Surana could not dodge. It didn’t matter where the lightning caught him or that Connor had survived a direct hit from it: as soon as the electric green magic touched him the Archmage _screamed_. The spell sustaining him shattered and he dropped to his knees and then face down in a heap. He did not get back up. The Hero of Ferelden did not move.

“ _Maker, no!_ ” Connor scrambled to him, both hands fumbling for his mouth and throat so he could feel for breaths and a heartbeat. He found one and then the other, heard Surana gasping sharp and fast from the pain and even if there was no immediate way to help him, he wasn’t dead.

“Guerrin, eyes up!” Genevieve shouted, stepping behind Connor with her shield up, protecting against the threat of more magic. “I’ll carry him, we need your magic!”

“We have to get out of here!” Connor shouted, because he didn’t know what else to do. Nathaniel appeared with his bow behind him and several curses on his snarling lips, and quickly began hoisting Surana up.

“Your horn, Captain!”

“Will they hear it from so far?”

“Make sure they do!” Genevieve took a knee with her shield resting against her shoulder, Connor took up his staff and let his eyes scan the dark in case a hail of arrows or more magic came down on them. But then he realized he had no spell-knowledge that would help with that, so what was the point?

The Captain pulled at the clasps on a case at her belt, opened it, and drew a silver and white bone horn. She put it to her lips and pursed them tight, blowing hard and causing a deep, strong, sailing noise to bellow from the small instrument. It leapt off the stone walls and amplified itself, roaring high and strong. Connor had to give his head a shake after being so close to it.

He and Nathaniel quickly moved to put Surana on the Captain’s back, and just as she stood they heard a sound come racing through the stone back to them: another horn, one that trumpeted in two loud, high lengths of breath.

“Hawke!” Nathaniel gave a triumphant roar and punched the air. He quickly drew his bow up again and led them fast and light down a stretch of rubble from their high vantage. He loosed two normal arrows into the skulls of a pair of genlocks that snarled at them from the shadows, retrieving one of the shafts with a firm tug before Connor and Bouclier were at his heels.

Connor didn’t let himself think too hard, he just saw something tall and wielding a jagged sword lumber into view and sent a bloom of ice surging up from its feet. The Hurlock shrieked and dropped its weapon, and instead of wasting another arrow Nathaniel made a sharp motion with his hand and planted a thin knife between its eyes from fifteen paces. It was still losing air as they ran past it, Genevieve moving like the Commander’s body was no weight on her at all.

“If they were holding a line then they’d better start pushing forward!” Genevieve complained loudly behind him, and Connor heard Nathaniel force a laugh before the hunter elbowed him.

“Dead ahead, take them out.” He couldn’t see anything but he trusted the glow in Nathaniel’s eyes, swung his staff back, twisted it over his head, and pointed several ribbons of crimson fire that spread ten feet out before them. He felt one creature seize up and burn before two more came running through the spray to attack with teeth and knives. Nathaniel took one down with another knife and Connor felt his arms jerk on his staff and swing the blunt end out in a swift arc that smashed the second one’s jaw and threw it down with a wet crunch.

“You’re getting better at this!” Howe praised him.

“I want to get out of here!”

“Sometimes that’s all it takes!”

They came down into the mouth of the ancient square. To their right stood the walls of stone and the filtering light of the surface, the stairs wet with fluid that reeked of rotten meat, the wind coming down cold from above and carrying the screams and shouts of human soldiers: the clash of steel, the ratchet of crossbows. To their left was the chaotic and confused swarm of limping darkspawn, their bodies half-clothed in armor or bits of rotted hides, some of them blinded by their deformities and others missing limbs or jaws as they staggered about. They were weak creatures, even Connor could see that much.

But beyond them were the spread legs of the great statue, and at the base of that behemoth there came the repeated flash and surge of magic cutting the darkness. The Broodmother Utha screamed again, but through the swarm they couldn’t see her in the statue’s shadow.

Nathaniel was holding two of his remaining three explosive shots. He turned and loosed one up the stairs where there was a satisfying cacophony of darkspawn screams and smoke, then he turned at the limping spawn and pointed the third arrow up on a blind arc and loosed it. Connor didn’t see where it landed, but he heard it and saw the white flash. It made the mutilated spawn stumble and cry out in their blindness, some of them even staggered towards the sound rather than at the wardens who’d launched it.

“Connor lead the Captain up, I’ll cover you both!” Nathaniel shouted.

“Are we leaving her?” Connor asked.

“Get him to the surface, Guerrin!” He followed the order this time.

Attacking was easier than defending. He’d always heard the opposite but this time it was true. He started running and heard Genevieve behind him, barely keeping his footing on the slick stone blocks. The steps had settled, some were even and shallow, others high and requiring a jump for Connor and a hand for Bouclier. For once they were moving _in to_ the Darkspawn instead of holding their ground against them, and Connor should not have been so ready for it.

The monsters had their backs to them. Throwing lightning was almost too easy for him, he barely had to focus before his fingertips crackled and a twisted bolt launched from his staff and ripped through one monster, then split and forked through the ones around it. They were weak darkspawn, small and deformed and starving, but they were still darkspawn and they still dropped and staggered and screamed when his magic tore through them. He rolled his shoulders to let his staff pass behind him and around in front, flinging bolts off the casting stone that took the creatures in the back, in the eyes, flayed the skin off one’s rotten arm.

The light was more of a challenge than the stairs or the monsters. He could barely see ahead of him and that was what made his magic come so quickly. He didn’t know who or what or how many, just that if they were facing away from him then they were attacking the soldiers roaring overhead, and if they were fighting humans then they would turn and fight _him_ if given the chance. He wouldn’t give it to them. If he died on these steps then he’d die fighting.

His arm swung wide and scattered the golden lines of several icy glyphs, and on the follow through with his other hand his staff swung and tore two bolts through the air. It meant that when they passed over the glyphs on their way up, Connor was able to look back and with one hand catch the straggling Darkspawn trying to flank them.

It immediately worried him when Connor looked at the damage wrought by the ice and didn’t see Nathaniel. Genevieve was behind him and she called out to ask why he’d stopped, but Connor couldn’t answer. None of the icy spires were tall enough to accidentally be the third Grey Warden. Nathaniel wasn’t there.

They’d gone far enough with the white light now behind him that Connor could see all the way down the curved stairway to the first few yards of the blackened square, but Nathaniel Howe was not there.

“Guerrin!” He turned and made a horrified sound, but his staff twisted with him and his shoulder thrust the silverite cage up through the Hurlock’s jaw: a bolt from the staff alone was enough to tear the ligaments and he regained enough presence of mind to follow-through again with the back end. The Hurlock had no armour and buckled at the second blow, ribs snapping as it crumbled with a reedy gasp.

What he’d done didn’t catch up with him until he and Genevieve were already hurrying forward again. So long as she couldn’t fight and the Commander was injured none of them could go back. Connor arched lightning through the air again and heard human voices shouting now, growing louder than the spawn who were trapped between his magic and the inquisition’s steel.

 _“FOR THE VIGIIIIL!”_ A deep, roaring voice bellowed, and Connor stopped at the top of a high step when he saw the darkspawn collapse in a wave,  a short bowed head barrelling through with a silver brick of a warhammer dropped low and trailing. Warden Constable Oghren shouldered-checked Hurlock twice his height and stomped his silver boots over the chest and head of a genlock that lost its footing under him. He pulled his head up in time to bank hard to Connor’s left and throw his Warhammer out in a swing that ripped the head right off the darkspawn trying again to flank him.

“ _Flare, mage!”_ The dwarf howled, eyes spitting blue under his helmet. _“_ Let the line see you!”

Connor nodded mutely and threw his hand up. Lightning again and it made his arms feel weak, but the violet light spat from his palm and spiralled upward, coiling bright and bold over the battle before raining down through the monsters and blood. 

“Soren!” Oghren shouted, planting his boot on the fragile knee of a genlock that came at him, then crashing his elbow through its face. “ _Soren!_ ”

“Magic can’t heal him!” Genevieve shouted, her dagger clutched in one hand as Connor spun his staff and stopped their flank from rising up again. “He needs to reach the camp!”

“ _Follow!_ ” Connor didn’t ask permission and he didn’t think he had to: he traced the mark in his mind and spread soft pearls under his fingers before Oghren took his first step. The magic washed through his armour and the dwarf gave his shoulders and head a rolling shake, stomping his feet as the tear under his shoulder knit back together, the bleed in his mouth sealing up so he could spit the copper and phlegm away. He switched his war hammer back to his preferred hand and hoisted his shoulders with a satisfied grunt.

“Stay on my tail, Warden!” And then with a great bellow, “ _HAAAAAAWKE!”_

“Present!” And with a great splurge of blood, there he was. Connor saw the sword rip the back of a Hurlock facing away from him, and then the bloodied silverite twisted and tore free. Where the Darkspawn had stood the Grey Warden appeared, his armour dark with blood and grime, streaks of green and mud clinging to the joints of his gauntlets and pauldrons.

“Cover the mage!” Oghren shouted, and then he dropped his head and charged forward, plowing back through the line towards the Inquisition’s side. Connor felt himself twist around when Hawke moved into his space and shoved his arm with one elbow.

“Are you hurt?” He demanded, Connor’s voice still lost to him as he raised a hand with lavender song around it. The bad bruise snaking around Hawke’s torso retreated and the dangerous mark on the back of his neck- something that had snaked through the join of helmet and armour and bludgeoned his blue tunic without cutting through- the pain was soothed and rested. Hawke’s arms were still at work holding his blade up when he parried a sloppy swing from one of the advancing darkspawn, but he gave his neck a testing roll before elbowing Connor again, _harder_. “Not what I asked!”

“Nathaniel was right behind us-” Connor’s voice finally flooded out of him. “He said he’d cover us. I just lost sight of him- it was minutes ago!”

“Where? Further in?”

“Yes- there’s a broodmother.”

“This close to the surface!?” The Warden bellowed, twisting to look at Connor through his helmet and giving an angry roar when something sank its fangs into his arm. He punched the spawn off and shouted _“I’m having a conversation here!_ ” Then- “ _Guerrin!_ ”

Connor knew it would be bad so when he turned the ice was already there. It reached up through the air like tiny fingers and grasped the darkspawn that jumped at him, clutching it greedily until he swung his staff with both hands and shattered the monster’s head. The fact that any of it worked made him stagger, but Hawke grabbed him hard by the back of his robe to get him upright again.

“In or out, recruit?” The surface was so close, so close behind them, it- “I’m going after him!”

“In!” Connor shouted. He knew the terrain, he knew what was going on. His body was shaking and he was suddenly dying of thirst, but Hawke took his answer and ran with it- literally ran away, and Connor picked up his feet and followed.

Now the slime and filth on the steps made things truly dangerous, now when darkspawn stared blindly up into the light they didn’t see the Grey Warden and Connor coming, but Connor could see every festering sore and distended piece of rotted flesh. Hawke’s sword made easy work of them, the simple force from each swing enough to make them fall back, lose their footing, and drop with screams and shrieks over one another. These beasts were young and small, nothing like the ones that had come bearing down on Connor and the others after the landslide, not like the army that had surged past them in the roads.

“There was an Alpha but Nathaniel killed it!” Connor heard himself rushing to explain, “The ogres and stronger ones marched east out of the thaig but will be back at any moment; there’s a Grey Warden down there and Howe called her Velanna and-”

“Don’t know the woman, just the stories!” Hawke shouted back, jumping from one step down with both feet onto a crawling genlock to crush it. “Howe won’t leave without her!”

“What!?”

“ _Hurry up!_ ” Connor did, and it took him several seconds too long to realize there was someone running and sliding abreast with him. Honestly, he might not have noticed Zevran at all had the elf not reached out an arm and helped Connor keep his balance over the icy remains of his own spent glyph.

“Wha-!? When did you-?” He gasped. Zevran gave a toothy grin not at all marred by the sweat and blood streaked across his dark cheeks.

“I’d be no good at my job if you always saw me coming, Connor. Glad you’re still alive!”

“Surana’s at the front line.”

“And you’re headed far behind it. We’re bringing back Howe, yes?”

“Yes.” Several spaces on Zevran’s bandolier were empty, but he pulled another one vial off and held it out for Connor to drink. He was very careful to hear that instruction: he didn’t fancy finding himself with a mouth full of bees today.

As soon as he tipped his head back he regretted it. Something hot and peppery and distinctly _alcoholic_ cut down his throat and made him gag, tears welling in his eyes. All he could hear over the darkspawn was Zevran laughing.

“I thought it was lyrium!” Connor choked, handing the spicy death back to the elf. It had once tasted like scotch and had the cloying sweetness of port, but that _pepper_ \- “What good was _that?_ ”

“You’re bleeding hard!” He was told in a very matter-of-fact voice even though Connor had no memory of being hit or any pain to correct him. “Save your magic, you’re getting tired but we’re almost through with this! Once we get Howe it’s a hard retreat, understood?” Yes, Connor understood. “Let’s go!”

“Any day now, you two too!” Hawke shouted. Connor hadn’t realized he’d stopped moving to take that drink.

They dove straight back into darkness and the chilling chaos of the thaig.


	20. Last Chance

There were so many things to be afraid of. There were the darkspawn swarming the darkness of the old thaig. There was the presence of the broodmother hidden under her mammoth statue. There was the fact that Nathaniel had off and vanished through the swarm of creatures. There was everything and again that Connor didn’t know about the ex-Warden Velanna or her master, the Architect. Why in Andraste’s Holy Name had Connor volunteered to come back down here?

Because Nathaniel Fucking Howe, Man of All Bad Judgement, needed to come back alive. Connor’d known the man a month and was ready to throw his life away in the dark looking for him, the selfish creep. Connor had _not_ dragged the Hero of Ferelden through miles of darkspawn infested tunnels just to let the Lieutenant wander off and get himself killed while no one was looking!

Hawke cleared a bloody path for them as they entered the darkness. His sword’s reach and power were too much for the deformed, hobbling spawn dredged into this world by Utha and they crumbled in mangled, fleshy pieces as he hacked their soft bones and split porous flesh. In fact it became so easy by Connor’s estimation that Hawke ended up pulling back, barking something that made Zevran, light and agile and silent as the dead, sweep in front of him and dart with soft steps and smooth motions to take over the slaughter.

The darkspawn lost the hands that tried to scratch him, he caved in the skulls of the ones reaching to bite him. His long daggers were curved, nasty looking things that glittered red and gold with their heavy coats of blood. He handled them so easily, one facing forward the other trailing down his arm, that he made each precision cut count. Zevran didn’t speak as he worked, and it looked like he used up half the energy with any single cut that Hawke would have to swing his entire blade around for. The only one that gave him pause was a hurlock that spotted the elf and tried to rush him, only for the assassin to duck and spin under its arm. He came up behind it and with one brutal motion the blade cut and dragged down its flank, hobbling it. Hawke finished it as a courtesy.

The killing made this the longest stretch of time Connor had seen Zevran go without smiling. He was certainly good at what he did, but his narrow face only moved between disgust and detachment. These spawn were not the ones they had to worry about.

“Now’s not the time for a Darkspawn history lesson,” Hawke said under his helmet. He walked with his sword down but ready, resting it up against his back with one hand on the hilt whenever there was space for them to take a few running steps before Zevran was lured into another short, bloody fight ahead of them. “But what did you see of Velanna?”

“The Alpha wanted her to come back with it to someone called the Architect.”

“Did it say where he was?”

“A nest, I think? It said the broodmother here would have been safer there.”

“No doubt. Wherever that nest is it’s too far down the Deep Roads for the Grey Wardens of Ferelden to find. The Marchers and the Anders aren’t much help on that front and we all know what Orlais looks like right now.” He sounded frustrated as they hurried on through the darkness. They’d slowed and it had given Connor’s eyes time to readjust to the dim shadows of the thaig again. “Did she agree?”

“No. She was mad at the Darkspawn for whatever happened to Utha- the broodmother. She refused to go with it and that was when the Commander ordered our attack.”

“Please tell me you weren’t out in the open when he did that.” Connor pointed up in the darkness to where the old balcony was just beginning to drag itself from the murk. “Well that’s _something_ at least. These things look too stupid to follow anyone’s orders to fight back anyways. Look at them! They’re not even circling us properly! I bet I could just start punching them all.”

“Please don’t start punching them,” Connor asked, and even through the helmet he could see the _‘and why not?_ ’ look in Hawke’s glowing eyes. “I’ve already carried one critically wounded Grey Warden around today and I don’t want a second run.”

“You’re no fun.” Hawke complained.

“Hawke,” Zevran called, and Connor was well aware of the fact that he stayed close to the warrior’s side as they hurried forward again and saw the way Zevran was pointing. They hadn’t come straight through the square, but rather followed the far wall hoping to circle around and get as close to the statue as possible. The colossus itself was built into the wall of the square with no way to get behind it, its towering figure holding up thousands of tonnes of city and stone.

The darkspawn lumbered and fell over each other like undead, as ready to fight one another as they were the three interlopers. Zevran’s quiet, lethal cuts had served incredibly well at keeping them from waking up in a hungry frenzy. If the scent of blood drew any of them over then they focused more on the corpses than the ones who’d killed them.

Zevran’s attention had been taken by the sudden flash and arc of unnatural light at the statue’s feet. They were too far for Connor to feel the magic, but he could see it and that was plenty good enough. Twisting green and orange light flared and splashed against the underbelly of the thaig and Connor’s breath caught. These darkspawn didn’t need that much power to keep at bay and the Alpha was dead from Nathaniel’s arrow. The only ones left for Warden Velanna to attack were the returning swarm or-

“Howe!” Hawke grunted, and he gave Connor a smack on the arm before he started running. Zevran he lost track of in the darkness, and the spawn Hawke was willing to just shoulder and jostle out of the way without actually taking the time to kill them. Some tried to reach out, but even the one that caught Connor’s arm he was able to shake off and keep running.

He heard voices in the dark.

The two of them reached the great foot of the statue and the great blocks of stone jutted out in a way that made them easy to climb and scramble over. Connor hoisted himself half-way up and took Hawke’s hand to help him the last bit, and they came to a long slant of stone some ten feet off the ground and as many wide. Peering over the slant showed them down into the Broodmother’s pit.

“And what then? Are you going to just fight them all?”

“Nathaniel, _leave._ ”

“I said no!”

Velanna’s staff flashed brilliantly in the dark and carved a path through the darkspawn gathering at the mouth of the broodmother’s shallow lair. They were the hurlocks that had ripped and dragged the weak spawn from the mother’s flesh and clearly they wanted to continue with that duty, but they were met with forks of green lightning and the deadly edges Nathaniel’s daggers when they dared.

The broodmother was quiet, her head rolling and towering body twisting in slow, difficult convulsions. There was a wet splashing sound in the shadows around her, her short arms blackened like her mouth and face. There was little to her ghostly white flesh to say she’d once been anything more than a monster, a line of teats sagging down her front, one over the other like a grotesque and bloated nug.

As soon as the darkspawn relented and pulled back, the two wardens met in the middle of their space between mother and brood and resumed their argument.

“Velanna, there are at least fifty trained men and women coming down those stairs for her!” Nathaniel growled at her, he towered over the mage and she looked like she was moments from smacking him in the head with her staff. “You know you won’t be able to fight them, and you already said you won’t go back to the Architect! Come with me!”

“I won’t leave her-” The mage choked at him.

“I know you care but where does this lead?” Nathaniel pleaded, and then he grabbed her arms, streaking blood down her sleeves as he held her. “The Inquisition will take you to the surface, you can _escape!_ ”

“I won’t let them _cut her to pieces!”_ Velanna shook him off and pulled away, throwing one arm out towards Utha. “Either the swarm will abandon her to starve or the surfacers will cut her apart to kill her- I won’t let them!”

“Velanna there’s no way to keep her alive, you _know_ this- that swarm will come back if we don’t get out of here now.”

“No!”

“Is this what the Dalish deserve!” Nathaniel shouted, crowding her space but not touching the mage again. Connor could see that something was wrong with the woman’s elven ears- they were long but curled, her pale skin greyed out and dark where the ends had begun to collapse. The same dark lines gathered around her eyes and the backs of her thin hands. “Do you know how hard it was for the Keepers to accept that the only Dalish Warden in Ferelden had vanished without a trace in the Deep Roads? Now we’re supposed to tell them that rather than a mystery the story of Velanna ends as a tragedy? Is this what the Dalish deserve? The closest to a hero they’ve come in years and she throws herself down as a Broodmother’s last meal?”

“Nate _don’t…_ ”

“I’m not leaving you.” It struck Connor that he and Hawke were intruding. Neither of them moved, but the simple fact that the mage below reached up to touch Nathaniel’s face changed the tone behind their words. “Not again.”

“She’s been my friend through everything, Nathaniel. I can’t just turn away, I’m sorry.” Connor looked at the broodmother and tried to see more than just the monster. It was hard. Had there really been a person who once existed under all that blood and agony? What could the Darkspawn or their ‘ _Architect’_ have done to transform her into _this?_

The two Wardens spoke in low tones too far away for Connor to hear any more. The creature behind them had gone quiet and the staggered crowd of mutilated and half-born genlocks were growling and feasting on the dead cut down by Nathaniel and Velanna. They were too hungry to care about the conversation, ripping at their brothers’ dead flesh in the dark.

Connor had the distinct and anxious feeling that time was being wasted. He looked up when Hawke suddenly gasped next to him and pushed higher up the rock. He nudged Connor with one hand to get his attention and hissed.

“She signed!” The Warden gasped. And then with a sudden push against the stone Hawke swung a knee up, climbing into clear sight of the two wardens down below them. “Howe, turn around!” He shouted. “The mother signed! _Nate!”_

Hawke’s voice startled the two wardens away from each other, but then they looked and Connor did too. The broodmother lifted her blight-blackened hands and placed one finger between the others of her flat left hand, then pulled the solo finger away quickly. Her head hung at her shoulder as if she were dead, but her hands moved and repeated the gesture, proving that it was deliberate.

“No,” Velanna moaned softly, “Utha, no…”

“What does it mean?” Connor whispered. “Hawke, what does-?”

Something grabbed his ankle and yanked him off the statue. He couldn’t scream and hit the ground hard on his back. Dazed, he threw his arms up when the darkness became a man-sized beast that crawled over him.

The air rattled with wet gasps and a heavy fist slammed down on him. The metal plates protecting it were bristled with iron spikes that tore open the palms of Connor’s gloves, slashing the skin beneath when he tried to defend. He threw fire and in a panic-stricken flash saw the darkspawn open a mouth full of rows of tiny needle-like teeth. It roared over him. It only had one arm and it punched down on him again. A deep cut opened across his forehead and temple, forearm badly bruised where his robe refused to rip.

Ice rippled off his wrists when he closed his arms over his head, a shield of frosted blue that cracked under the Alpha’s attacks. The creature only had one arm: its breastplate twisted and mauled by the explosive arrow Nathaniel had struck it with. It had been hiding, waiting.

The monster’s scream woke the stumbling brood. Hawke’s rescuing charge was broken by tumbling child-sized bodies that grappled with his legs, his shoulders. They ripped at the wings on his helmet to pull his head back and get expose his throat. He didn’t fall but the Grey Warden was stopped. He was swarmed.

A crossbow bolt sparked off the Alpha’s head and cracked the helmet open. The brief sight Connor caught of Zevran was the assassin slamming his arm and the genlock biting it against a wall. The grunts mauled from all angles and blood sprayed when he wrestled one of his daggers loose and cut at them. He was so far away.

Connor’s ice shattered when the Alpha lifted with its legs and slammed its needled fist into his gut. The robe didn’t tear but he screamed when the bruise ripped through him, legs pinned when the Alpha pulled back to hit him again.

“ _The males die!”_ It howled. “ _Return her to the nest!”_

“ _Connor!_ ” He felt ribs break with the next strike, tasted blood. His staff was in sight but out of reach.

An arrow sparked off the ripped open side of its body with no effect. Somewhere magic flashed green in the dark and Connor heard screaming.

 _‘Come!’_ He flung a hand out for his staff and it scraped the floor towards him. His bleeding hand closed and he swung the rod with a crackle of desperate lightning. The Alpha’s only hand caught and stopped the blow but Connor let the magic loose anyways. It surged through those black spikes and flayed flesh, forcing the spawn to reel back and give Connor his only real chance to escape. He kicked and pushed with his legs, scrambling backwards and lett the angry darkspawn just have his staff when the Alpha wouldn’t let go.

He found his feet, the white haze of mana-loss mingling with pain and cold sweat to blind him. He backed up, tried to breathe through the blood, and grappled for his magic. The Alpha had his staff and with a lethal crack its claws crushed the silverite cage around the serpentstone, splintering the crystal and letting off a wicked gout of green light. Connor heard it begin to hiss and crackle as the darkspawn advanced on him, throwing the staff down with a clatter at Connor’s feet as he tried so hard to move back.

He retreated and was trapped in a corner between the cold wall of the thaig and the great leg of the dwarven colossus. His back hit the solid wall, no crack to hide in, no stairs to flee up, no silverite shield or burning wagons or sheer dumb luck to help him now.  The creature advanced.

Human voices roared into the cavern. The Inquisition had made it down to the thaig and were a hundred yards from them. It didn’t matter: the creature advanced.

The air hissed and Nathaniel planted two arrows in the Alpha’s back. It roared and stepped wider because it didn’t matter: the creature advanced.

Vision feathered with white, he curled the threads of the strongest spell he could manage and Connor threw it on the ground. He felt nearly blind as gold and blue and white spiralled over the stone floor, the fire in his chest burning so cold as it began to struggle and fight to keep reaching through him. Three circles of pure magic etched on the ground between him and the Alpha, caging him in with inches to spare between the mana and the wall. Didn’t matter: the darkspawn advanced and Connor’s mind fumbled, bleeding fingers crippled by fear.

It growled and slammed its hand into his throat. His feet left the ground, back pressed and dragging up the wall as it pushed and lifted him higher. The bones reinforcing his collar bent, throat sucking before it closed up completely from the pressure. Something under his ears popped. He kicked at it and grabbed the wrist holding him. It _squeezed_.

Mouth open he gagged. The Alpha shouted something profane with breaths that were wet and raw with blight. His broken staff was down between the darkspawn’s feet and Connor could hear the fractured crystal hissing wildly as frost crept up its silverite body. Hawke screamed is name again but at a run he was still too far away.

Something in his neck popped again. He couldn’t pry any of the fingers from his throat, so threw his hand out at the Alpha’s face.

He didn’t shoot fire, or lightning, or fear, or panic. He reached down to the glyph, felt the ice grip the volatile crystal below, closed his fingers and with a torque and _pull_ made the mine erupt.

The power of the glyph was already set, all Connor had to do was maintain it. That shard of awareness he had was enough that once the mine was triggered he felt the magic try to grab the staff only to find itself abruptly sucked inside the cracks of the serpentstone. All three glyphs collapsed in the sudden vortex, drawn into the same singular point, and then exploded.

The ice rocketed out and straight up, a pillar almost twenty feet high and marked by jagged protrusions of super-cold air that froze in the dank air of the thaig.

The arm holding Connor snapped off at the elbow, he hit the ground and collapsed.

“ _Guerrin!”_

He just…

“ _Connor!_ _CONNOR!!_ ”

He couldn’t…

* * *

 

First he could hear the rain. After that, Soren began to smell it.

The rain smelled cold and fresh. It soaked through something that was thick and musty, like waxed wool or tanned leather. It made a distinct sound. The sound pattered lightly around him and was comforting.

He’d been drugged. Heavily drugged. It was thick in his lungs and settled in the back of his skull, head too thick with the apothecary’s syrup to move, eyes sutured shut by the tiny fingers of embrium and something else. Something bitter.

The air was cool. The tent was dim. His cot was firm, blankets heavy. He couldn’t move and didn’t feel inclined to try. He was probably bare but the blankets had settled so deeply he couldn’t put his mind to the task. He knew he was shirtless, but the arm he had out in the cool air was wrapped firmly. He would have been able to feel her hand better otherwise.

They were alone, or else she wouldn’t have brushed her fingers across his brow or leaned over and pressed her lips to his forehead. She placed her hand gently over his chest, and he became aware of the ring of woven black iron resting against his skin, probably looped through a chain to keep it safe.

“You are a fool, my love.” Morrigan’s voice was deep and slow. He wanted to look at her but when his eyes slid almost open they closed again just as fast. He saw the dim glow of an iron brazier in the corner, then darkness. “And careless with objects of great value.”

He took a deep breath, thankful that it came easily through his nose and rested light in his chest. The breath helped him keep his eyes open this time, long enough to see her rouged lips, her black hair, her necklace even. Maybe just her hand.

He thought he focused on her shoulder and that was enough for him. He brushed his thumb over the hand in his and whispered a reply.

“Your ring?”

“Your _life._ ” His eyes slid shut when she scolded him, and he heard her kick her feet up and lean over the cot again. She brought her head to rest lightly on his chest, curled over him and tense so all of her weight didn’t press down on him. She thought he was fragile. He wasn’t. He pulled his other arm from the blankets and put it around her, down the back of her arm and then up to hold her shoulder. His next breath was as easy as the first.  
  
“You came all this way?” He asked her softly.  
  
“No, this is simply a figment of your imagination.” She rebuked him, her voice just as low. Then she moved and sat up again, looked down at him, and there was a deep frown pulled across her face as she spoke again. “And it is far more than you deserve after wearing metal rings into battle. I expected someone of your calibre to know better.”

“An emergency.” He countered, eyes sliding shut again.

“Born of your own reckless stupidity.” She scolded. If she hadn’t looked so worried then he might have argued with her. He didn’t need her to worry about him and it was uncalled for. He’d made a mistake, but- “You may never bend that finger again. What I felt was horrid enough and the explosion that caused it nearly removed your finger entirely when the metal absorbed it.”

He looked over her head, quiet for a moment. When he tried to move his wounded arm it resisted and pain began to grow, so he stopped. She noticed and punished him by pinching him in the same arm in the soft place inside below his shoulder. He hissed and stiffened automatically, feeling the skin down his back ache and begin to sting in retaliation. Forcing himself to relax helped and so did answering her properly.

“Were you hurt?”

“By the ring? No. But you frightened my son and I have not yet forgiven you.” Soren felt his face soften. He had not been scowling at her, but the comment was enough to make him hesitate. “He is not here, but he is safe as always.” He never doubted that, but his disappointment was clear enough for Morrigan to bend her head down and press her forehead to his, her hands combing his hair gently. “I will tell him that his father is well.” She promised.

“We will be together again soon,” Soren whispered back, curling his fingers against her cheek. No, it was better Kieran not see him injured like this. “What of the darkspawn?” He finally asked.

“The battle was of great aid to me in the search for you.” Morrigan answered, sitting up and resting where she had started at the edge of his cot, their hands gently folded. “You are in the Inquisition’s base camp here on the Storm Coast, in their medical tent to be precise. Your new Grey Warden, Captain Bouclier, carried you out of the Deep Roads and has been most rude to me since my arrival involved sneaking past her guard. I am certain you will correct her, yes?”

“She means well,” He defended softly, and yet nodded. “But yes, I will.”

“Your Hunter brought back a stray from the Deep Roads,” She continued, a disgusted twist marring her lips. “I will caution you not to trust her as readily as he has, my love. She betrayed your Order once and will no doubt do so again, but she aided in the defeat of the broodmother lurking in the thaig you were trapped in and has performed other acts of note. All known entrances to the Deep Roads here on the coast have been sealed.”

“How long have I been asleep?”

“Two days, and you were lost for nearly as long.” Time always moved differently in the Deep Roads, he didn’t question her saying they’d been missing for that long. But then Morrigan did something. Soren wished she hadn’t, or that he could have missed it, but things didn’t go his way. Barely parting her lips, Morrigan slid her tongue between her teeth and bit it gently. She only gave the tell when she was tired or feeling careless.

He let his disappointment show again in the heavy weight of his face, and she read him as easily as he had before.

“Oghren fought hard and ended the battle relatively unscathed.” She reported to him, because she knew he was asking. “Zevran and Hawke each took a day’s rest here in the tent but are up and about now and making preparations to move on. As I explained already, Nathaniel is well and has been quite consumed with looking after the stray, and your Orlesian is standing guard outside this tent.”

Then came a silence Soren was convinced she allowed to grow on purpose, urging him to speak.

“Don’t play games, Morrigan.”

“Oh, but I believe I must.” She answered in a tone heavy with frustration as she switched which hand was holding his and then propped her elbow on his good leg, leaning on it like he was part of a chair. “Tell me, Warden Commander, if Connor Guerrin truly had survived the peril of the Deep Roads, were you actually going to give him the Joining?”

“I-”

“Think wisely, Sweet Arl, before you give your answer.” She cautioned. “For you have not given the chalice to a mage since Anders’ desertion and Velanna’s disappearing act. Now you have one of them back, indeed, but the other is still the mage Thedas holds accountable for the outbreak of that nasty war we just endured. Were you really going to take Arl Eamon’s son for the Grey Wardens, right under the nose of your own ex-Warden King, and expect the Landsmeet to ignore the Order’s fingers in every pie from Denerim to Redcliffe? Am I to honestly believe that after the disaster and _disgrace_ of Adamant Fortress you are suddenly prepared to bring more mages into the order again? Do take a moment to reveal your great plan to me, my love, for it seems most suspicious.”

Soren felt a cold breath seize up in him, and he said the only thing he could.

“Did he survive?”

“Does it matter if you were simply going to lose your nerve and shunt him into the Silver Order like all your other cast-off recruits?”

“ _Morrigan_.”

“What a foul mood the Commander of the Grey has fallen into!” She gasped in mockery, sitting up with her hand spread across his thigh. “Could it be he had not realized his own nasty tendencies?”

“Does he live? Answer me!”

“Were you going to make him a Grey Warden?”

“ _No_.” She slapped him.

She slapped him and stood before he finished reeling, the heel of his palm against the sore edge of his face where she back-handed him. He was too shocked by the assault to mind the pain down his back and shoulders from twisting the way he did. There was no blood but she was vicious.

“He lives, and you have wronged him.” She hissed at him. “He killed the darkspawn General that rallied and tried to corner your men, but not before it broke his neck. The Stray who your recruit _volunteered_ to turn back and aid saved his life, but without his magic your company would not have survived. You, Soren, would not have survived. _You_ would be _dead!”_

“I heard you the first time,” he growled against his hand, stubbornly looking at the tent wall.

“Uphold your agreement,” she spat. “Send Alistair after dissenters in the Landsmeet and Leliana for any Chantry opposition. Turn the Guerrins into toads if you must! You need mages in Ferelden and you are going to _start_ with the one you already have!”

“Which one of us makes those decisions?” He felt his temper heat the words.

“ _I do!_ ” She shouted over him. “Because I refuse to watch you continue to cling to past mistakes! That boy is not Anders! He has no _‘secret reason’_ for wanting to escape into the Grey Wardens. The most he could possibly ever ask for is to serve as a liaison to Denerim when Rowan comes of age! After what he has already done he will not betray you!”

“And if it kills him? The Joining?” Soren asked, passing over another point completely.

“Then it would be done and you would send your condolences as you would for any failed initiate.” She settled the question firmly and folded her arms, scowling down at him. “Do not make that face. If you are hiding something, speak it.”

“He doesn’t know about Rowan.”

“Impossible, all of Ferelden heard the news. Even I did.”

“You were not in the Circle of Magi where current events were at a premium.” Soren rebuked her, looking at his partner properly for the first time since the slap. He was going to hold on to that spurn for a while. “If he knows he has a sister then he hides it better than anyone I’ve ever known.”

“He has already proven himself to your men, he needs no more inane testing.” She told him sharply. “But have it your way, tell him what his parents have not and _then_ initiate him. He will not run to Denerim, Soren, stop acting like he will.”

“It should come from his family, not from me.”

“Cease this dance!” She shouted, throwing her hands in the air. “Give him the chalice or I will pour it down his throat myself!”

“Can you have no respect for this decision?”

“Not when it is based in foolishness!”

“The Joining is lethal!”

“As-is your precious Harrowing!” Morrigan howled, “Do not act as if your influence at Skyhold has gone unnoticed! You would send him unnarmed against a demon, ill-informed to find a rogue warden, _injured_ against a darkspawn general, but then hesitate and cry out for his safety in the face of a simple draught of darkspawn blood and lyrium? I will forgive you your scars and thoughtless escapades, _my love_ , but your cowardice is _revolting_.”

“I did not _order_ him to-”

“I am going to _retch._ ” She drawled. Soren felt his teeth click and jaw lock in frustration.

The anger stayed and was suspended between them. He was angrier than his witch however and he knew it as soon as they both stopped talking. Being so nettled meant he was on the losing side of this clash, he was not going to win, and giving in sooner would spare him in the long run.

Ferelden didn’t need a stronger civil force under the banner of the Silver Order, she needed Grey Wardens to protect her. Alistair had been after him for longer than most people knew asking how well the Ferelden Order was growing, and it _had_ grown, but the twin daggers of betrayal had slowed him. His caution had paid off with the rise of the Darkspawn Magister.

He liked Connor, yes, and had found him to be talented and level-headed, but the Joining was not something you could just run away from after it was done. It wasn’t a ring you could cast off like Anders or a coat of arms you could ignore like Velanna. The Silver Order was a better place than where Soren had found Connor a month ago, and if he chose to run off to Denerim at some point and abandon the Vigil then at least, _at least_ , he wouldn’t have the Grey Wardens’ fragile reputation to stomp all over.

No Ferelden Grey Wardens had answered Corypheus’ tantalizing call for demonic hosts because Soren had been the only mage who _could_ have answered. They had all felt the False Calling and there had been few enough of them, only some twenty members in all, that Soren had forbidden a march to Orlais after Clarel’s shaky summons. An elven mage sitting at the table with Tevinter to discuss a ‘ _solution_ ’ to the Blights? Soren had heard enough about Corypheus from Carver Hawke to know they were better off tracking the Architect’s nest for answers than getting lost in the deserts of the Western Approach. Aiding Constable Stroud through Ferelden to investigate Clarel’s poison was part of what had killed the man in the end, but Stroud had saved many lives at Adamant.

With a clean conscience he could declare that no Ferelden Wardens had taken part in Clarel’s blood magic. Not one person to take the chalice from _his_ hands had aided in the assassination of Divine Justinia. He accepted the blood of the Grand Cleric of Kirkwall and the slaughter in circles across Thedas after his hand in protecting Anders, but save Anders and Velanna Soren’s Order was clean. Ferelden’s Wardens were few but mighty.

His gaze drifted from Morrigan as he reflected. He was so awake from their arguing that his body was beginning to hurt all over, burns itching and stinging under the gauze he’d been swaddled in. They were all fresh bandages down his arm and hand and places he could not see, not the same ones Connor had dressed him with in the thaig. His skin was tender, but whole thanks to the young man's help.

Morrigan smoothly lowered herself onto the cot again, leaned down in front of him, and took his chin gently with her fingertips. She kissed him and he closed his eyes, felt her lips press close and soft to his, her breaths warm and even. His anger cooled, but did not go away. It never did and neither did hers.

“…If it kills him,” he whispered when her lips left and her face nuzzled close and warm against his.

“Let it be his choice, my love…”

“I…” He looked at her as well as he could in the dim light and his own fatigue. “I will have Oghren prepare the ritual.”

She kissed him again, and then crept away to deliver the news.


	21. Epilogue

Hawke was the one to recite the oath in the rain:

“ _Join us, brothers and sisters._

_Join us in the shadows where we stand vigilant._

_Join us as we carry the duty that cannot be forsworn._

_And should you perish, know that your sacrifice will not be forgotten._

_And that one day we shall join you.”_

“Connor Guerrin, you are called upon to submit yourself to the Joining. Step forward.”

He did. The chalice was cold. And the blood- it _burned…_

* * *

 

_Two weeks later…_

The city of Highever was draped across the cliffs of the Waking Sea, several days ride from West Hill. Her port was not as grand or busy as Amaranthine’s natural harbour further east, but it was still a point of interest along the Fereldan coast. Her soft grey stone made for wide streets, warm homes, and towering buildings brushing against the spring fog and winding towards the high seat of Teyrn Fergus Cousland, master of the city and its surrounding lands.

The Warden Commander had a pleasant view of Teyrn’s castle from his window. The inn was located in the city’s midtown area, close to the market district, and their rooms were on the second floor of the great stone building. An inn with warm wool rugs and high windows wasn’t usually the sort of place where a trio of elves would find themselves staying for well over a week, but Soren had coin, Zevran had his smile, and Velanna kept her hood down over her scarred face.

His Wardens had boarded a ship for Val Royeaux six days ago, with orders to carry on to the Western Approach and take the situation there in hand until Soren could join or recall them. Morrigan had taken her leave before they’d reached the city, and Zevran had been gone for four days now on a special errand.

Soren had regained the use of his hand and arm. His shoulders no longer hurt and he could sit up comfortably, irritated by the loss of his staff but careful not to show it as he slowly regained control of his magic. He could walk and made a point of doing so, although he knew running and long travel were still out of reach. Between Zevran, Morrigan, and Oghren, he had been confined to bedrest from the time he awoke in the Inquisition’s camp until he finally ordered his last friend out of the city.

Velanna, or the _Stray_ as Morrigan had insisted on calling her, knew better than to tell him about his own health. She also did not leave the suite without his permission in case her appearance caused a fright or spread rumours. The last thing Highever needed was whispers of strange elves spreading blight in the market.

From the nailbeds on her hands were dark grey veins of corruption. She insisted it didn’t hurt, but the same darkness had bled from her eyes and the corners of her mouth. The tips of her ears had curled and blackened. The skin was not dead because she could pull the ends and unroll them, but she admitted that most of the sensation had vanished. Years without the sun had caused her complexion to leech out and lighten to unsettling levels. Her hair was thin, white, and lank. She looked starved and took her meals cautiously, eating very little at a time and often stowing things in her pockets for later.

After Zevran left Soren and Velanna were left locked in the same set of rooms for four straight days together. He hoped she was as unhappy with the arrangement as he was, and had the added benefit of being the one to arrange it. Nathaniel had not wanted to leave and go half-way across Thedas, but Velanna could not be expected to make the same journey and Soren refused to risk her running off or betraying his company again. He had commanded Howe to leave with the others because the darkspawn in Orlais needed to be checked and they needed every Grey Warden Ferelden could spare.

“You want to know where the nest is.” She finally said, and Soren kept gazing out the window at Highever castle.

“Of course I do.” He answered, wondering if it would rain today. “And why you finally left it.”

“You don’t trust me.”

“Of course I don’t.”

“Then why keep us alone together? What if I turn on you?”

“Oh, please do.” He looked across the room to where she was standing by the burning fire. It was spring, but Highever was chill. “I’m sure Nathaniel would enjoy confronting either of us about the other’s death.”

She was silent after that, curled in around herself and standing with her shoulders hunched. She’d lost a lot of her pride down there.

“If I said I was sorry, would it make a difference?” She asked.

“To Nathaniel? Possibly.”

“To you.” He made sure he was looking at the painting hanging on the wall when she threw a glance at him over her shoulder. It was a blue vase spilling orange and red flowers. He wondered where they’d found the blue pigment from. “Commander.”

He took a breath, considered an honest answer.

“If you’ve spent the last ten years sowing broodmothers, then no.” He told her flatly. “If all your efforts were to end the Calling then… maybe.”

“Utha was the only broodmother.” Velanna said in a hushed voice. “Seranni wasn’t a Grey Warden, when she began to succumb to the taint the Architect let her drink deathroot and fall asleep. She got to die on her own terms, on the surface, deep in the Brecillian forest. Utha wanted to spend her last hours under the sky and I… couldn’t make it happen.”

“And that wasn’t enough to show you how wrong your path was?” He asked, wondering if she might-

“You agreed with him once too.” And she did, she did remember and she did try to use it against him. “And then as soon as the Mother was dead, you-”

“Tried and failed to find him.” Soren filled in. “He had his reasons but they started the fifth blight, Velanna.” And then: “We’ve argued about this before but I think you agree with me this time.”

“I…”

“Seranni wasn’t a Grey Warden, but Utha was?” He tried to see the logic in this twisted puzzle. The answer did not please him, but he found it. “Did he want to know if a Grey Warden would become an Awakened darkspawn? An Awakened broodmother like the one we killed in the bone pit? Would her spawn be Awakened as well and resist the Calling from birth?”

“No.” Velanna told him, but there was a tremble in the way she said it and stared down in the fire. “It didn’t work. She began to change and the pain was too much, she signed for him to stop- she was a Silent Sister before joining the Wardens and had no tongue! He pretended not to see it, he lied, and he just kept forcing her to consume more and more. He forced the flesh down her throat and her hands just wept no, _no, no…”_ And her faith had finally broken. Soren could feel content with that.

“I’m sorry for what you endured.” He told her.

“I thought I was the one who was supposed to apologize?”

“Yours wouldn’t make much difference.” She’d been foolish and wrong. “Maybe mine will.”

They passed another two quiet, uncomfortable days at the inn, until finally Zevran came back.

“Who said you could be out of bed? Go lay down.” Were the first words out of his mouth.

“Hello, Zevran. Welcome back.” Soren was standing at the window, simple clothes and boots on as he’d just returned from a steady walk around the market. He felt stronger, strong enough to keep on his feet just to spite his road-weary friend. “Were you successful?”

“I found them and then some.” Oh? His cloak was speckled with the same rain Soren had narrowly avoided. He had mud and grass caking the bottom of his boots which the innkeeper would not appreciate. His bandolier held several new shimmering bottles and his daggers were safely stowed at his belt. He had the bright-eyed look of a week’s worth of hardy exercise and Soren admitted he was jealous. “Where’s Velanna?”

“I’m here.” She uttered quietly. The suite was several tidy rooms connected to one antechamber, and she approached cautiously from the door to her own room. Soren could have moved them after the rest of the Company departed, but had enjoyed the antechamber along with the stability of not re-settling into another place. The Innkeeper probably thought he’d stolen the money.

“Did you two have a lovely heart-to-heart?” Zevran asked her coyly.

“I don’t think either of us has one of those.” Velanna’s venom felt tired, and Soren smiled as he kicked one ankle in front of the other where he was leaning. He felt a twinge in his leg but tested it anyways.

“Well?” He asked, courteous enough to wait for Zevran to finish his laugh. “If you’ll make the introductions then you can rest.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t dream of missing these next few minutes, my friend.” Somehow that answer did not inspire confidence. “You may want to sit down, Soren.”

“I think I’ll stand.” He said, but felt his smile slip.

“Have it your way!” Zevran was still standing with his back in the open doorway, but then he took a step in and to the right, clearing his throat with a dramatic little huff. “May I present An’eth Athras Zathrian, Hunter for her Clan.”

Soren heard Velanna make a soft sound and vanish back into her room but he called her back. She did not come willingly, but unless she intended to crawl out the window and drop to the street below she had nowhere to run.

“Keeper Lanaya sends her regards, Grey Warden.” The awkward behaviour from Velanna gave the elven hunter pause as she entered the room under a mossy green cloak cut with patterned swirls of different fabric. She pulled the hood off her short orange hair and revealed the vallaslin etched into her skin. She had a long and narrow face with a bold nose and slender ears, her green eyes severe as she stood rigidly, ill-at-ease with her surroundings. “She sent me as an escort and messenger to report Clan Zathrian’s willingness to aid you. In the spirit of continued friendship, our Clan is willing to offer what we can.”

Soren pushed away from the wall, standing properly before he inclined his head slowly.

“The Grey Wardens of Ferelden offer their thanks, Huntress.” He said, “May the Dread Wolf never stalk your camp from the shadows.”

“Since when do _you_ give a Dalish blessing?” Velanna asked him harshly, her cloak fetched from the other room and hood up over her disfigured face. Soren regarded her briefly, and then explained the situation.

“Hunter An’neth,” He said, addressing the Dalish. “This is Velanna, one of the People and recently freed from the Deep Roads. She has information that is extremely valuable to the Grey Wardens, but in her present condition is no longer fit to fight or travel to such dangerous places. She is a mage and is deeply versed in Elven History, she and your Keeper will have plenty to discuss. Please, give my personal thanks and well-wishes to Keeper Lanaya. Amaranthine’s Wending Wood will always welcome your clan’s aravels.”

“What?” Velanna sounded breathless, and Soren regarded her blankly. “What are you doing? I thought you were going to drag me back to Vigil’s Keep?”

“Would you _prefer_ that?” He asked, slowly. “I remember you chaffing around so many _shem’len_ and stone walls. Nathaniel will be gone until at least the end of spring and I can’t recall you having many friends among the servants or guards at the Vigil. I intend to follow the others to Griffon Wing Keep in Orlais as soon as I’m well enough and frankly I don’t trust you to be left unsupervised at the Vigil or expect you to fare well in the middle of a desert, not yet. Unless you want me to lock you up, Velanna, then the only reasonable solution is to send you to the Dalish.”

“I’m a deserter.” She whispered, her blight-stained eyes wide and staring at him from under her hood. “Why would you…?”

“I hate to quote a Disciple, Velanna, but I think you’ve suffered enough for your choices.” He lectured her, and he made sure to sound as belittling about it as possible. “I can be angry with someone without setting out to destroy them, and most would rather see you healed instead. Shall we waste more of Hunter An’eth’s time or are you going to gather your things?”

“I…” She was speechless, good, it meant she couldn’t argue with him. “When do you expect me to come back?”

“When you’re ready.” He answered. “When you can handle it. If that time never comes then you never return and the Dalish get to keep you. The only condition I set on you is this, Velanna: you are going back to your people, but you’re also going to one of my friends and if _anything_ happens to Clan Zathrian _because_ of your presence there, I will end you. Am I fair?”

“ _Fen’harel_ himself could not get past me.” She pledged. It sounded like spite and that pleased him.

“Go.”

Velanna clasped a hand and touched it to her breast, then quietly vanished back into her room. She was shaken and probably thought he was lying, but honestly he was glad to be rid of her for now. She returned a moment later with her staff and likely nothing else, she’d brought very few things with her to begin with. When she crossed the floor with it she hesitated and made the hunter fidget nervously.

“I would like to be gone from this place, _Hahren._ ” The woman murmured.

“Commander, you’re… certain about this?” If she kept asking him then he was going to change his mind. Instead he sighed and waved her away.

“There are four elves in this room, Velanna, the innkeeper will be thrilled to watch two of us leave. Off with you.”

“Thank you, sir- Soren, thank you.” There was something there, something that made the rims of her eyes burn red, her lips parted and beginning to pull. It was an emotion caught between disbelief and joy and he was not as invested as she was.

“Dismissed!”

“Come, _dah’len_.”

“Grey Warden,” the hunter acknowledged him one more time and then quickly turned and followed Velanna out of the room.

Soren closed his eyes with a sigh, running his hand over the back of a chair and slowly setting himself down-

“You had your chance!” Zevran mocked, and that was when he heard the soft commotion outside between the two women and- “And now for a visit from-”

“Enough, enough!” A new, male, voice said. “I know how to be patient and polite but no more games. Surana!”

A tall human entered the room with dark brown hair cut and swept to the side in the Ferelden style, his black jerkin sporting a dark steel breastplate, his gloves and coat cut finely and threaded with embroidery on the cuffs. Soren had sunk half-way into his chair and immediately caught his weight on both arms, his half-healed shoulders screaming as he forced himself back up on to his feet.

“Teyrn Cousland,” He said, suddenly winded when pain skated down his back and the weight made his leg shake under him. “I was not expecting-”

“Are we being polite or direct this afternoon?” The Teyrn interrupted him, and Soren felt his tongue roll back inside his mouth.

“Perhaps both, your lordship.”

“No, that won’t do.” Cousland berated and his tone was alarming. Amaranthine and Highever were on _good_ terms with each other and that had always extended to the offices of the Arl and the Teryn. “It won’t do at all, in fact- _in fact._ ” The Teyrn interrupted himself and raised one hand to bite his knuckle, clearly trying to keep from saying something that would not improve whatever this was. The Teyrn twisted towards the door and called. “Your Grace!” Gra-?

“ _You kept the Teyrn and the **King** outside?”_ Soren hissed, winded from the shock as he stared at Zevran. And the fool was laughing at him, grinning from ear to pointed ear.

“And this is why you’ll _never_ make me Seneschal of _anywhere_.” Zevran crooned. But Soren could make him a lot of other things. Like a toad. A small, green, slimy toad. That spell didn’t actually exist but no one needed to know that but him.

“See, I _knew_ having Zevran bring the Dalish girl in first would ruin your composure.” King Alistair Theirin of Ferelden announced, stepping through the doorway in a vest of structured leather panels, edges of fur lining his shoulders and the cuffs of his long sleeves. His blonde hair had grown darker over the years, brushed back instead of sitting up at the front like it once had, lines under his eyes from the stress of his life in Denerim. But today he stuck his chest out when he walked and was so kind as to shut the door behind him when he entered. He strut himself forward and presenting his right hand, fingers hanging and wrist up high, clearly mixing a bit of snark in with a touch of mockery when he left his hand hanging so high that Soren had to reach up and bring it back down to a level he could work with.

“Are we being polite or direct today, your majesty?” Soren asked, touching his lips to the fat gold ring on Alistair’s finger, the only proper greeting between and Arl and his King.

“Definitely direct.” Alistair quipped, and then, “Maker’s breath, what did you do to your _hand?_ ”

“Magic, sire. Magic and darkspawn.”

“You were right, Fergus.” Alistair addressed to the Teyrn. “Have at him then.” What?

“Arl Surana.” Teyrn Cousland said in _loud_ voice. “Honoured as I am to find the Hero of Ferelden resting in Highever, I would have _greatly_ preferred not to _find you_ , but to have been told of your arrival!”

“Ah.” He had _thought_ of that, but then- “My lord-”

“The Innkeeper claims you have been in these rooms for nearly three weeks and not one word has been sent to the castle!”

“Teyr-”

“Do not interrupt! It’s once in a blood moon that someone gets a hand over you and I’m going to enjoy it!” Cousland shouted and Soren felt his tongue roll tightly in his mouth to make sure he didn’t interrupt again. “The excellent rapport between Highever and Amaranthine is of great importance not only to the Teyrnir but also to the crown! And it is on the basis of that friendship that I expect the Arl of Amaranthine to announce himself and stay under my roof when he is in _my city!”_

Soren felt himself tense up from scalp to toes with the effort not to flinch back. He did not like being made to feel like an Apprentice again, in fact he downright resented it, but his magic did not tempt him either. Fergus Cousland wanted to take a strip off of him for being slighted and he was not going to let it devolve into a dog fight.

“We arrived in Highever as a company of eight Grey Wardens, my lord.” He explained stiffly. “I would not bring such a large and well-armed company into your house with no warning. And I personally was not capable of presenting myself to you and the Banns of Highever.”

“You arrived as such but where are they now?” Cousland demanded.

“On a ship bound for Orlais. It departed last week.”

“And you did not come to my hall when they left, because?”

“I thought to spare your house the rumours.”

“What rumours?”

“That elven woman who left with the Dalish,” Alistair finally cut in, sounding suspicious but not harsh. “She didn’t look quite right, hood up and wrapped up like that in a warm room. What was the matter with her?”

“All the appearances of Blight poisoning, but none of the actual symptoms.” Soren answered again, keeping his words clear. “She was a Grey Warden we thought lost in the Deep Roads. No immediate danger to anyone, but far less likely to harm a Dalish clan than a human city.”

“Wait,” Alistair pondered out loud. “If she’s a Dalish elf who was lost down there then doesn’t that make her…” His eyes went wide and his mouth dropped with a gasp. “And you didn’t just- turn her to ashes!”

“I was… distracted.”

“Nearly killed by whatever did that to your hand you mean.” The King rebuked, and then pointed at Zevran to explain how he could _possibly_ have known that. “He’s got a big mouth y’know.”

His temper slipped a little. Giving Zevran a black look Soren rolled his wrist hard and conjured a red flame that danced over his palm.

“Oh I’m _trembling,_ m’lord…” Zevran threw a false sniffle into his act and he closed his fingers around the spell to snuff it out. Cousland was not impressed.

“You could have at _least_ requested my apothecaries to help look after you.” He complained.

“I have been well taken care of, your lordship. Highever is a pleasant and peaceful place to recover and until today I’d thought that I’d kept a low profile in the district. It seems I was mistaken.”

“No, you aren’t. I mean, you did.” Cousland corrected. “If His Majesty had not spotted your messenger leading the hunter this way we never would have known.”

“So this _is_ your fault,” Soren directed at Zevran, who gave an animated shrug.

“She’s Dalish, she’s not good with being inconspicuous on a crowded street.”

“You have my apologies, Teyrn Cousland. And seeing how it’s only Zevran and I who are left I will humbly accept your hospitality.”

“And you’ll grovel.” Alistair suddenly piped up, looking excitedly at the Teyrn. “You can make him grovel, you know, I’ll back you up.”

“Erm, thank you, Your Majesty, but no.” Cousland declined and Soren felt his teeth stop grinding. “Raising my voice is about as far as I’d like to take things. And yes, Arl Surana, I will expect you and your companion to join my table this evening and remain at the castle until your business takes you elsewhere. I will clear your expenses with the innkeeper, as well as whatever your men paid for their passage to Orlais.”

“You are very kind, your lordship.” And Cousland nodded to him, a good sign that he was ready to leave.

“Good day, Your Majesty.” The Teyrn said, and waited for Alistair to present his hand and allow him to leave. The Teyrn left the suite and once the door was closed again the king gave a deep, melodramatic sigh.

“Sit down, Soren.”

“That whole thing was more polite than direct,” He commented, reaching back slowly for his chair.

“Sit _the fuck_ down, Soren.” Alistair repeated in a _much_ harsher voice, and it made him look up curiously as he did, in fact, sit down. “Alright. I’m going to make this easy for you. Because we’re friends. In the sentence _‘Arl Eamon’s son has been **blank** ’ed by the Grey Wardens’_ is the word I’m looking for _recruited_ or _conscripted_? Take your time. I have all day.”

“When was the last time I conscripted _anyone?_ ”

Alistair slammed both hands on the arms of his chair, leaned down and shouted, _“YOU STOLE ARL EAMONS’S SON YOU SON OF A BITCH!”_

“That’s such a harsh word.” And a harsh voice. How rude.

“But I know you!” Alistair continued, standing up and raving with his arms in the air. Zevran was sitting on the windowsill grinning at them with a pipe stem between his teeth. “You recruit everyone and their aunt but you never give them the Joining anymore! So where is he? Where are you hiding him? Where is Connor? I’m taking him with me to Denerim.”

“Why?”

“Because _his family wants to see him_ that’s why! What other reason could I have?”

“His family hasn’t spoken to him since he was in Redcliffe during the war, I doubt they want him that badly.”

“Hold it there! You don’t know the Guerrins like I do.”

“You’re right, but I know their son.”

“Soren!”

“How do you even know he’s with me?”

“Because we have this amazing thing called _letters_ and I have one from the Inquisitor telling me that _you_ , the _Hero of Fucking Up Local Politics_ , have him with you!”

“Had.” Soren corrected.

“Had him with you.” Alistair’s face and probably his heart both fell at once. “Oh no…”

Soren slouched in his chair, not all the way, but enough to take the pressure off his leg again. He would have to lay down before tackling the walk to Highever castle.

“I gave him the Joining.” He admitted softly, reverently.

“Oh, Maker, no…”

“He survived.” He sighed.

“Oh- Oh! That’s not a bad thing you- you _pointy eared little bastard!_ Don’t scare me like that!”

“But it’s so _easy_ …” The same whimsical tone, because even when Alistair took him by the collar and shook him hard for it, the pain was still worth the slight. He tried to laugh but wound up gritting his teeth together and coughing gently. “Ow, ow…”

“You deserve it!”

“I do.”

“Alright, where in Orlais did you send them then?”

“The Orlesian part.”

The King began laughing. Not a good or a nice laugh, but a loud and rather manic one.

“I’m going to kill you!” he cried.

“What do you want me to do, Alistair?” He asked, “Bring the entire company back just so one of my Wardens can get dragged into Denerim’s politics? Abandon the situation on the Western Approach just because you’d like me to? I’m sorry, my friend, but I won’t. In fact, if I don’t go right after them to Orlais then I might join you back in Denerim and have a few words with Arl Guerrin myself.”

“Why would you do that?”

“Because as far as Connor Guerrin is concerned, Alistair, Rowan Guerrin doesn’t exist. No one’s ever told him he has a sister.”

“Why didn’t _you_ before you sent him off to Orlais?”

“Because I was sending him off to Orlais.” Congratulations for answering your own question, Alistair. “We’ll address it when he comes back.”

“Which will be approximately when, exactly? Sometime in this age I hope?”

“He’s a Grey Warden now, Alistair. You know what that means.” The king heaved a slow, heavy sigh…

“It means he does whatever _the fuck_ he wants now.” Alistair griped. “Great. Brilliant. _Fuck_. I bet you expect me to smooth this all over with the Landsmeet now? Make sure they don’t get all scared at the thought of _Arl of the Grey Surana_ snatching their children out of their beds at night?”

Soren put his burnt palms together.

“ _Ma serannas_ , my King.”

“Fuck you, the sound of you speaking elvhen is the most pretentious noise in Thedas. _Fuck you_.”

Zevran laughed so hard he almost fell from the window.

* * *

 

_Two Months Later…_

No one had told Connor the Western Approach was a sodding desert. He was Ferelden-born and raised on the shores of Lake Calenhad, the hottest temperature he had any right to be exposed to was right around ‘ _what’s that big bright thing in the sky?’_. Here the sun went from being just unnecessarily harsh and brilliant to absolutely burning in minutes, scorching the sand and bleaching out most of his hair in the first week. He hadn’t been this blonde since his childhood, and he didn’t appreciate the way only half of his face tanned. His forehead and cheeks and chin all darkened up until he looked Antivan, but the scarred skin across the bridge of his nose and covering both eyes stayed a glaring eastern white.

At least he had his eye-sight, he told himself every time he caught a look at his reflection or noticed someone staring. The scars hadn’t bothered him until Hawke had let him get a good look at his now two-toned face on the back of his helmet in this Maker-forsaken sunlight.

No one had told him that the Approach’s darkspawn problem was _the most virulent_ in all of southern Thedas either. They didn’t have scattered Deep Roads entrances peppering the landscape, oh no, they had _miles and miles and sodding miles_ of a great big canyon where _all of it_ was infested with the damned things. They gave him the worst headaches of his life, always scurrying around at the edge of his thoughts and making his vision blur.

All this and nevermind how the Approach had bubbling pits of sulphur that tried to choke you out when the winds changed. Or the sand that everything sank into and the little grains that knew how to get into every crease and crevasse of _anything_ , cloth or flesh. And the wind that ripped down their tents and scared the horses and made navigation impossible when their few landmarks just up and vanished in a sudden storm. And had he mentioned the entire _sodding army_ of Darkspawn?

Had he mentioned how they only came out _in the middle of the maker-forsaken **night?**_

“I want to go back to the Deep Roads.” He finally groaned. Next to him, sharing the fragment of shade cast by their knocked-down tent, Hawke started shaking with laughter. It was their turn to try and get a bit of sleep under the sun’s bleeding rays and Connor elbowed the Grey Warden _hard_ in the back.

“Fuck!” He swore through his laughter. “No! It’s still funny. I don’t care.”

“The Inquisition said they were going to station me out here,” Connor hissed, rolling onto his back. “ _Permanently_.” Hawke roared with laughter at something that wasn’t even all that funny. “Are you _alright?”_

“I have sand in places sand should _never be…_ ” Hawke’s laughter tapered off until it sounded like he was whimpering. “I want to go back to the Deep Roads _too_ …”

“Lead, I’ll follow.”

“Maker, where’s the Commander? He should have been here weeks ago.”

“If you were him, would _you_ come?” Connor rolled onto his stomach, adjusting the linen cloth wound around his face and head so he could both breathe and sleep without fearing the sun. He was laying on his robe, hating the fur between him and the sand. Well, most of the sand.

“No you don’t get it,” Hawke gasped. “You get bleached out and your face looks weird. Surana’s an _elf._ Surana _burns._ ”

“I think we’ve all had enough of the Commander being _burned,_ Hawke.”

“No but these are _funny_ burns. I mean, he just goes this awful cherry red and gets _so cranky_.”

“You are _so lucky_ he’s on the other side of Thedas right now.”

“Why? Because things can’t get any worse?”

Things got worse.

“Did you…?” Connor opened his eyes inside the shroud.

“What was that?” He heard Hawke ask.

They both sat up, Connor pulling the shroud off his head and shaking the sand from his hair. He felt through the loose sand next to him until he found the iron and dawnstone body of the staff Genevieve had helped him haggle for in Val Royeaux after getting off that forsaken ship. Apparently the first rule of being a Grey Warden was _‘don’t get attached to your gear’_ , but he wasn’t good at that yet, and had promised not to blow this one up like the first.

The first thing Hawke did was find his waterskins and quickly swing both of those over his shoulders, Connor following suit because it didn’t seem like a bad idea. He was buckling on his supply belt when they felt it again, and he pushed both hands down flat on the sand.

“Maker’s breath!”

“Where’re the others?”

Their horses were still tethered to the post where they’d left them, the animals protected by a thin band of shade cast by a set of tumbled old rocks, a trickle of spring water all that made this place a semi-decent camp ground. Connor left his robe on the sand and swung his staff onto his back where the hook caught it, glad he hadn’t taken his gloves or boots off.

He followed Hawke up the great sand-dune that made up the _‘wall’_ of their camp, braving the sun and glare as they both pulled their shrouds up to keep their heads from burning away in the intense heat. The wind caught the sound of voices and flung them across the dunes, and the two of them peered out through the waving heat.

“Oh, there they are.” Hawke said in a very relaxed way. “Those couple of dots there.” Looked like… Oghren… Nathaniel… and… yes, that shiny one was Genevieve.

“Are they… running?” Connor squinted hard through the glare.

“Horses behind them.” Hawke stuck an arm out over the hot sand. “Over there, see them?”

“A little. Don’t look like bandits.”

“Bandits way the piss out here?”

“That’s why they don’t look like them.” Hawke looked like he wanted to say something, then rolled his eyes with a huff instead.

“What in Andraste’s name are they running from?” He asked instead. “The horsemen aren’t archers. They’re too far away. I don’t…”

It happened again. It was deep and made the sand shake. A few grains tumbled down the side of the dune, dust lifting from the ground like smoke. Connor admitted he was disturbed by it, but then squinted through the heat again. The others were getting closer.

“I’m getting my armour.” Hawke said and then slid down the dune.

“Hey wait- what’s that sign?” Connor asked.

“What sign?” He asked, already at his blanket and pulling his breastplate on over his head.

“The Constable’s making it. He keeps… swinging his hands in front of his face.”

“When are you gonna just start calling everyone by their names? Have you ever heard _any_ of us call him ‘ _Constable’_? Should we all just call you ‘ _Ensign’_ from now on?”

“ _Hawke._ ”

“I need more than _‘swinging hands’_ , Guerrin. What’s it look like?” Connor tried as hard as he could to see, and it didn’t work. He knew it was a sign, he knew he’d seen it before.

But he’d also seen Nathaniel in that flat-out, dead man’s sprint before. And Genevieve was running so hard he could hear her armour jangling from here. Oghren? Oghren was shouting. Probably swearing, but definitely-

“I think it’s…?” The ground beat again, confusing him. That was also the moment when through the haze he recognized the colours of the company riding fast on the heels of the Grey Wardens. A mercenary company in the pay of the Inquisition? With a massive Qunari at the head with wide bull’s horns?

“What’re the Chargers doing out so close to the canyon…?”

“What! I can’t hear you, Guerrin!”

“Why’s The Iron Bull riding around without the Inquisitor…?” He only did that when there were reports of… of… “Oh Maker-”

“Connor!”

“No, no, no- Not dying like this-” He wasn’t dying like this! Not here! Not today! “Hawke it’s a-” Oghren’s voice overcame him:

“ _DRAAAAAAAGOOOOOOOON!!”_

The sand exploded and Connor flung himself down the dune, sliding feet first and snatching up the sleeve of his robe before falling into a tumble. The earth-shattering bellow of a High Dragon sent the desert trembling as Connor felt Hawke grab one of his arms while he stuck the other through his robe. The enchanted garment stitched itself shut over his chest just as Nathaniel jumped clear across the sun and sky, Genevieve and Oghren’s heavily armoured bodies following in a messy burst of silverite and orange sand.

The air rumbled with heat and noise and something black and massive struck through the air and slashed its way through the desert sun. Its wake ripped the sand dune to pieces and Connor threw both hands out in front of him, elbows locked and teeth caging a terrified scream in his mouth.

The glyph bloomed in an array of white and blue magic, repelling the wall of wind and sand that tried to sweep over and smother them. He didn’t cast it large enough but it was still there, and it worked. When Connor felt himself being pushed steadily back by the force of his own spell something tall and solid was there to stop him. The sand wall collapsed with a deep hiss and as soon as he was staring up at a smooth angle of fallen sand he realized what he’d run up against, sweat beading down his neck.

“I’m on- the wrong side of- your shield.” He grunted through clenched teeth, and when Genevieve pulled the silverite piece back Connor let his arms and his spine both go limp and he hit the ground on his knees. Stunned with relief.

“My sword-” Hawke gasped as the dust settled. “My- _fucking sword!_ _No!_ Look at all this shit sand everywhere! _NO!”_

“Please tell me both of you grabbed your water before that happened.”

“I don’t care about the water I want my fucking _sword_ , Howe!”

“Where the _fuck_ did the horses go?” Oghren scratched out between deep gasps of hot, dusty air. The post and the animals were gone.

“Back to Ferelden.” Genevieve answered, sounding breathless as she knocked Connor’s shoulder with her hand. “Up, if you can, and thank you. I need your help to dig the spring out from under all that.”

“ _Oi!_ ” A new voice, one that came from over them and back thirty feet to where the other side of the dune had previously been. Connor saw the tall outline of a Qunari warrior, bare grey skin beaded with sweat and legs astride a mount that could _not_ be a horse, not with all those horns and claws and scales. The warrior tossed both bare arms out in dismay. “ _You let it get away!_ ”

“Hah-” Connor felt broken. He’d just had a High Dragon fly over his head and destroy their camp. They had three hours left before sundown and the next wave of Darkspawn trying to make a rush for Griffon Wing Keep north of them. “I want to go back to the Deep Roads.” Genevieve laughed and pulled him to his feet.

“Start digging, Hawke,” Nathaniel called out in mockery. “It’ll be dark soon.”

 _“FUCK!_ ” Hawke was Hawke.

“I can help you look once I clear out the well.” Connor offered, and Hawke turned with hands flashing and told where he most explicitly could shove his sentiments. Like any language the easiest things to learn were the insults.

 _‘No sword.’_ He signed back, because he thought he was clever. ‘ _I have-’_ And then he conjured several small arcs of purple lightning between his fingers.

“That’s it- you’re dead!”

“Warden Hawke!” Oghren bellowed from what remained of the old stone blocks. “Go find your sodding sword! Warden Guerrin!” Connor jumped. “Go find the sodding water! Warden Howe!”

“I’ve found the horses!” Nathaniel’s voice trailed from somewhere over the sand.

“Of course he fucking has… Warden Bouclier!”

“Oh? A job for me too?” She asked.

Oghren pointed a sand-coated finger at the Qunari now striding towards them and taking measured watch over their camp’s attempts to reconstruct.

“Kick his sodding ass!” The Dwarf ordered. Bouclier turned with her head tilted, helmet tucked under her arm and leaking sand from the eyeholes, sweat staining her dark skin as she gave a charming smile.

“Well,” The Iron Bull hummed at the challenge. It was worth noting that he was at least two feet and a hundred pounds heavier than Genevieve. “You Grey Wardens do owe me an _Abyssal High Dragon_. So why not? And then afterwards I’ll get you lot to help me track down where it went.”

“And when I win, sir, you and your men will help us against the Darkspawn tonight. Deal?”

“I do like a betting woman. You’re on.”

“I’m-” Connor interrupted lamely, sticking a thumb over his shoulder. “Gonna go look for water.”

“I’ll help.” Hawke was quick to come along after him.

And that day went along quite like every other day out in the forsaken stretch of blighted land known as the Western Approach. The High Dragon was kind of cool though, it stuck out a little, albeit not as much as the eyeless hairless _thing_ that crawled out of Connor’s flask on a completely different day and made him throw the whole thing into the canyon. That was worse than the dragon. That was _much_ worse than the dragon.

But do you know what wasn’t worse?

“Warden Guerrin!”

“Grey Warden? Message from Griffon Wing Keep, sir, for your Constable.”

“Are you one of the Ferelden Wardens? The Inquisitor spoke highly of you when she visited us.”

“Warden Guerrin, these are the supplies your Captain requested.”

He, Connor Guerrin, was a _Grey Warden_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, I'm gonna have to admit it's different not receiving any comments whatsoever on a fic when posting it, but I guess I understand more of the tumblr grumbling now.
> 
> But people ARE reading it, so- thank you for coming along! Apprentice Guerrin was a really fun fic to work on, and it DOES have a sequel: Disgrace of Redcliffe. Disgrace is currently posted on FFN under my pename and is posted up to the 25th chapter, on my tumblr blog LSunnyC Disgrace has 26 chapters, although it's not complete.
> 
> If there was enough interest to carry you through 21 long chapters, maybe now's the time to post a comment? Thanks again for tuning in, and if Disgrace arrives here on AO3 I hope it lives up to any expectations left by Apprentice.
> 
> Thank you!


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